#control. he is you. his decisions are always yours.

[jacksabbotts]

✧ cold storage — ❪ part two ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . after jack’s furious outburst in the morgue, you can’t sit with the silence—or the guilt. even with no space left and no backup available, you wheels a stretcher up to the er yourself, determined to prove you are doing your job. what follows is a quiet, desperate attempt to avoid confrontation while making things right even if it means handling four dead bodies alone. . ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! \ age gap ( reader is late 20s, jack is late 40s ) \ medical setting ( hospital/morgue ) \ mentions of corpses / dead bodies / autopsy prep \ death discussed clinically \ anxiety / overthinking / spiraling thoughts \ harsh tone from a superior ( prior scene reference ) \ self-isolation / emotional suppression \ physical overexertion / self-neglect \ internalized guilt \ negative self-talk \ touch aversion ( mild )

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you pressed the button for the third floor.

the elevator doors closed too slowly.

your hands were clammy around the collapsible gurney handle, your palms sticking to the rubber grip as the platform shuddered into motion. you hated these elevators—how loud they were, how long they took, how the lights overhead always buzzed like they were about to die.

you hated this entire decision.

but you were doing it anyway.

because it had been an hour since he stormed out and the silence was unbearable.

you’d refreshed your email inbox eight times. no response from admin. no pickup update from the funeral home. no call from your boss the medical examiner, who was likely asleep and blissfully unaware of the fact that the basement morgue was packed full and you were about to try and make room for four more.

this was stupid.

there was no room.

but the idea of him—jack abbot—still believing you weren’t doing your job? that you were down here eating lentil soup while patients bled out upstairs?

it gnawed at you. it rotted you.

so you brought the gurney. the elevator dinged at every floor like it was mocking you. you exhaled slowly. in through the nose. out through the mouth.

okay. just apologize. simple. direct. professional.

you tried again, whispering under your breath :

'dr. abbot, i just wanted to say i’m sorry again for the delay—'

no. too stiff. too scripted.

'i know it’s not ideal, but i’m doing my best to keep things moving—'

too defensive.

'i didn’t mean to make things harder for you, i just—'

too pathetic.

the elevator stopped at the second floor. no one got in. you swallowed hard. tried again.

'it’s just me downstairs. i’ve been trying to manage everything as best i can. i should’ve escalated the situation sooner. i’m really, truly sorry—'

and then maybe he’d say—

no.

no, don’t imagine what he’ll say.

you weren’t good at that.

jack didn’t follow scripts. he didn’t talk like anyone else. he didn’t even look at you like anyone else did—and you weren’t sure if that was good or bad yet. all you knew was that when his voice had filled that cold little morgue, something inside you had snapped in half.

no matter which version you picked, they all made your stomach twist. none of them sounded right. none of them felt like enough.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be making space for four new bodies. but the funeral home had come through early—just two pickups, but enough to buy you drawer room and a single empty table.

you could’ve waited for security to bring them down.

but part of you didn’t want to look like you were hiding.

the elevator dinged.

the doors opened into fluorescent light and barely-controlled chaos. someone shouted a room number. monitors beeped down the hall. a paramedic wheeled in a gurney while two residents followed, talking too fast.

you slipped into the corner like a shadow, trying to make yourself as small as possible as you scanned the room for him.

jack wasn’t there.

your shoulders dropped an inch. not in relief. not quite. you’d been bracing for impact. now you didn’t know what to do with the leftover adrenaline.

you angled your stretcher toward bay two—the furthest from the main desk, where the most recent doa had been placed. you could be fast. quiet. invisible.

'hey!'

you flinched.

dana. you didn't know her, but you know of.

of course, things could never go the way you planned them.

she strode over from the central desk, still in her navy compression top and trauma boots, a clipboard tucked under one arm. 'your the new morgue tech, right? you’re here for the stiffs?' she asked, jerking her head toward the curtain. 'jack's gonna lose his mind. he’s been bitching for hours.'

you couldn't help the rumbling in your stomach as dana referred to dr. abbot as jack. were they really that close? they seemed close in age and had the same no fuck around attitude. but you supposed it wasn't any of you business and nodded.

you nodded quickly, eyes darting toward the er entrance. 'great, i'll just get him so he can sign the transfer papers,' she turned to walk away and you stopped her with what could only be defined as a mouse peep.

'um. could you just give him the papers after i leave? i'll sign them and everything.'

dana blinked. 'why?'

you hesitated for a moment, probably trying to come up with a believable lie. 'he’s busy. he doesn’t need to worry about . . . something that’s just my job.'

she raised an eyebrow. 'you sure? he’s been chewing everyone out about this. if i tell him you’ve got space—'

'please,' you said again, more firmly. 'it’s okay, really. he needs to worry about the live ones, i've got the dead ones.' you immediately wince at your phrasing but don't say anything else.

dana looked at you for a beat too long. her expression softened slightly. 'alright, morgue girl. holler if you need any help.'

you nodded.

she patted your shoulder once—light, but enough to make you tense—and turned away without another word.

you exhaled slowly.

your hands were trembling again, just a little. the unexpected social interaction was a little more draining than you had anticipated. you adjusted your grip on the stretcher and moved toward the curtain, telling yourself you’d be gone in five minutes.

tops. no conversations. no confrontations. and absolutely no Jack, if you could help it. just a job. you were good at your job.

you took them down one at a time.

no one offered to help—not because they were cruel, but because you didn’t ask. the er was busy, and you didn’t want to pull anyone away from the living. besides, you were used to it. the elevator was slow, and the stretchers stuck sometimes when you turned them, but you managed. you always managed.

by the time you returned with the fourth body, your shoulders ached and your hands were stiff around the rails. you were sweating under your scrubs, even in the chill of the morgue—but the work gave your mind something to focus on. something that wasn’t jack abbot or the echo of his voice in your head.

the funeral home had picked up two earlier—unclaimed cases from last week. that gave you just enough room to do what needed doing, if you were smart about it.

and you were always smart about it.

you turned the thermostat down as far as it would go. the whole morgue shivered in response—cold creeping into the corners like frostbite, numbing the walls, the vents, your fingers. you didn’t mind. you preferred it that way. like a walk-in freezer, steady and sterile.

you slid the first two onto the autopsy tables. not ideal, but manageable. you pulled the vinyl covers over them and laid their charts on the tray beside each one. you’d process them later, when things were quiet again.

the third went between the file cabinets.

you’d cleared that space before—back when the coolers were under repair. it wasn’t perfect, but it was dark and low and close to the vents. the cold pooled there. it would hold.

the last body took the most time.

there was nowhere left.

you looked around the room, scanning every corner, every shadow, until your gaze landed on the empty gurney beside your desk.

it wasn’t even a decision. just motion. you rolled it forward, locked the brakes, and transferred the body as gently as you could. you covered them. labeled the tag. added a note to the chart.

then sat down.

right there. at your desk. beside the dead.

it didn’t bother you.

not really.

you’d always been good at compartmentalizing. at pretending you were part of the quiet. part of the stillness. being surrounded by the dead was no different than being surrounded by filing cabinets or lab equipment. they didn’t need you to make conversation. they didn’t expect you to smile.

the body beside your desk wasn’t a person anymore.

just paperwork.

just weight.

you rubbed your fingers, cracked from the cold, and jotted down notes in your log. your breath fogged the air.

you didn’t know what time it was.

you didn’t think about jack.

not directly.

but your hands trembled when you reached for the next file.

just a little.

🔖 . @princesssunderworld @mayabbot @imherefordeanandbones @arigoldsblog @oldmanbunnylover @i-mushi @autumnleaves1991-blog @lovelexi717 @peggyofoz @qtmoonies @nfwmb-gvf @britt217 @babybatreads @cheekym8s @bitteroceanlove @spooky-librarian-ghost @dr-yapper @yutasgem @keseqna @gardeniarose13 @witchbitchlovesdilfs @sotragedynut @robbyrosierobinavitch @anglophileforlife @flyinglama @reignbooks8506 @kmc198899-blog @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @chuiisi @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv @shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon @lumpypoll @coldmuffinbanditshoe @blueliketheseaa @justfaefaeee @sweetdayme4427 @404creep ( if you user is white, that means i could not tag you. i copy and pasted usernames straight from the forms so if you would like to send another form with the updated username you are welcome to do so 🫶😁 the link is above )

[leriexoxo]

Built For Ruin

Roommate! Leeknow x Reader

Tags: slow burn, thigh kink, filthy smut, roommates to lovers, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, dom minho, work out teasing, overstimulation, accidental voyeurism

Word count: 4.8k

Summary: Living with Lee Know was fine… until his thighs became a problem. Now he’s working out shirtless in the living room, stealing your shampoo, and daring you with every smirk. You try to ignore it—until you walk in on him wet, naked, and waiting. And when he tells you to ride his thigh? Yeah. You don’t say no.

A/N: This fic was requested by @ihrtlix ❤️ Enjoy!

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Living with Lee Know was supposed to be chill. Strict chore schedule, shared Spotify rotation, and an unspoken rule: no feelings, no flirting, and definitely no walking around in nothing but boxers and that godforsaken muscle tee that showed everything.

And yet, there you were — biting into a peach on a lazy Tuesday morning, trying not to stare as he squatted to grab his protein powder from the bottom cabinet. Every flex of his thighs tested your willpower.

You told yourself not to look. You always told yourself. But Minho’s body betrayed every attempt at restraint. Lean everywhere except where it mattered. His arms were carved and precise, his waist trim, but his thighs? Thick like sin. Each step he took, every crouch, every stretch of fabric over hardened muscle taunted your self-control.

And he wasn’t oblivious.

He caught you sometimes — the beat of silence before you answered a question, the way your eyes dropped before darting away, the breath you held when he stretched too close on the couch. You’d swear he smirked once. Maybe twice. But he never said a word.

There were only the silences. Lingering, heavy, and charged. Accidental brushes of skin. The way his leg sometimes pressed against yours during movie nights. Close. Too close.

Still, you told yourself you were safe. That it didn’t mean anything.

Until the moment that shattered everything.

You’d come home late, annoyed, exhausted, half-ready to collapse. The apartment was quiet — lights low, faint music bleeding from behind the bathroom door. You heard the water shut off. Then a towel. A rustle.

The bathroom door cracked open before you could escape.

And there he was.

Wet. Bare. Steam curling around him like smoke. His hair stuck to his forehead, water dripping down the sharp lines of his collarbones. A white towel sat slung low on his hips, teasing just above the dangerous. His chest glistened under the hallway light, and his thighs—Jesus, those thighs—were pure destruction. Wide. Solid. Veined. They flexed with every slow, lazy step as he towel-dried his hair, and then… he looked up.

Right at you.

“Hey,” he said, like he didn’t look like every bad decision you’d ever fantasized about. Like his towel wasn’t a single twitch away from wrecking your entire nervous system.

“You good?”

You nodded. Lie. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

His eyes held yours a beat too long. Something shifted in his expression. Calculated. Curious. Knowing.

Then he tilted his head — just slightly — and let the towel dip a little lower on his hips.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

Your throat tightened. Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You tried to look away, but it was too late.

His gaze dipped down, tracking over your legs, the death grip of your hands at your sides, the way your breath had gone shallow. He looked back up — and smirked.

“Been doing a lot of leg day lately,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Figured it was time someone noticed.”

You couldn’t move. The hallway felt too small. Too hot. And he stood too close.

That’s when it hit you. He’d known. All this time. Every stolen glance, every bitten lip, every time you pretended not to be affected while memorizing the shape of his body like scripture — he’d known.

And the worst part? He was enjoying it.

Minho stepped past you then, slow and deliberate. His bare shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your spine. His mouth passed close to your ear.

“If you like ’em so much… don’t be shy.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you?

You stood frozen. Drenched in heat.

Stunned.

—-

You tried to shake it off. That moment in the hallway — the wet skin, the low towel, the smirk like he’d just cracked your entire code — it replayed in your head on loop. And the worst part? He acted normal afterward. As if he hadn’t just stripped you bare without laying a single finger on you.

For the next few days, he didn’t say a word. But his silence had weight. A hum. A presence.

You felt it when he brushed past you in the kitchen, lingering just a second longer than necessary. You felt it when he reached for the remote, arm grazing yours like it was an accident — it wasn’t. You felt it every time he walked around in those tiny black shorts that clung to his thighs like a second skin, like he wanted to be watched.

He never said it outright. He didn’t have to.

Minho knew. And he was playing with you.

Especially during movie night.

He stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one thigh propped high, the other bent casually, teasing a dangerous view beneath loose fabric. You sat at the opposite end, pretending to care about the screen, pretending not to notice the way he occasionally shifted — slow and deliberate, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.

“You pressed?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes fixed on the movie.

“No.” You barely breathed the word.

“Then why are your legs crossed like that?”

You choked. “I always sit like this.”

“Mhm.” His lips curved into a smirk, but he didn’t look at you. “Cute.”

You turned back to the screen, ears burning, pulse hammering in places you didn’t want to admit. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. He already had you cornered.

And then came Saturday.

You’d just rolled out your yoga mat, hoping for some peace. A little mind-body disconnect. Something slow, something grounding. You wore leggings and a loose top, hair tied up, trying to focus on your breath. On your stretch. On not spiraling over the fact that your roommate had thighs that could suffocate you and the audacity to look good doing absolutely nothing.

You were two poses in when Minho walked in. Barefoot. Tank top. The same goddamn black shorts.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed a towel, tossed it on the floor, and dropped beside you — air shifting with the force of his presence.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Home workout,” he said, already rolling his neck like it was routine. “Leg day.”

Of course it was.

You watched him set up — no mat, no music, no distractions. Just him, kneeling, then rising into his first slow, steady squat.

And God help you.

His muscles flexed with every movement — taut and deliberate, as if he knew you were watching. And of course, you were. You tried not to be. You told yourself to focus on your breath, your pose, anything. But the sound of him exhaling, the tension in his quads, the way his thighs expanded and contracted under smooth skin — it was hypnotic.

At one point, you bent forward into a child’s pose and nearly whined. Not from the stretch — from the view.

“Something wrong?” he asked without turning.

“Nope,” you lied into your mat.

He chuckled low. “You’ve been holding that pose for a while.”

“I’m relaxing.”

“Are you sure?”

You sat up, flushed, glaring. “Why are you doing this here?”

“This is my house too.” He dropped into a deep lunge, one thigh slicing into the air like it knew it was being worshipped. “Besides, I thought you liked watching.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then. Full-on. No smirk this time. Just heat. Awareness.

“I mean,” he added, tilting his head, “you do a lot of staring for someone who’s just stretching.”

You opened your mouth. No words came.

Minho stood, grabbed his towel, and wiped his neck, gaze dragging down your body like he owned it.

“Let me know if I’m distracting you,” he said, already walking away. “Or don’t.”

His bedroom door shut.

You stared at the empty space he left behind, legs shaking — not from yoga.

And that was the thing about Minho. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

He was building you to the edge. Slowly. Mercilessly.

One day at a time.

—-

You’d had it.

The teasing. The stretching. The slow, smug smirks like he knew exactly how to unravel you without ever laying a hand. Minho was a storm in stillness — walking around that apartment like his thighs weren’t destroying your concentration one flex at a time.

But today?

Today he stole your shampoo. The expensive one. The one you rationed like gold.

You noticed it gone right after your lukewarm shower. No bottle on the ledge. Not in the cabinet. Nowhere. And you knew — you knew — he’d taken it. Not because he needed it. Not because he ran out.

But because he wanted you to come find it.

You stepped into the hallway and glared in the direction of his room. Your skin was still damp, towel clutched around your body, hair dripping. You stood there for a beat, chest rising and falling, fury burning low in your gut.

He wanted a reaction?

Fine.

You stomped to his room, still wrapped in your towel, not even bothering to knock. The door wasn’t locked — of course it wasn’t. You shoved it open, ready to yell—And froze.

Minho stood in the middle of the room. Still wet from his own shower. Back turned. Steam clinging to his skin like a second layer. And nothing but a white towel barely clinging to his hips.

As if on cue — perfectly timed, like he waited for your entrance — he turned.

And let the towel drop.

Time stopped.

His body was a punch to the throat. Wet hair clinging to sharp cheekbones. Chest gleaming. Abs carved like marble. And lower—

You swallowed. Hard.

His thighs — God, his thighs — were the first thing your eyes betrayed you for. Taut, thick, glistening. Cut so sharp you could trace the line from hip to knee without ever catching your breath. But it was all of him — the dripping cocky smirk, the full exposure, the quiet daring in his stare — that made your brain stutter.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Minho didn’t flinch. He stood there, bare, relaxed, like he’d just walked out of a dream you hadn’t woken up from. His eyes dragged down your figure — towel, damp skin, flushed face — and he grinned.

“You looking for something?” he asked, voice low, sinful.

You blinked. “My shampoo.”

He stepped closer, slow and predatory. “Oh. Right. That.”

You didn’t back up. Couldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as he crossed the room, stopping just in front of you — close enough that steam radiated off his skin and into your lungs.

“I might’ve borrowed it,” he said, voice a little too innocent.

“You think?” Your voice cracked, betraying you.

He tilted his head. Smirked. “You could’ve waited.”

“You could’ve not stolen my stuff.”

“I was curious,” he murmured. “About what made you smell that good all the time.”

That shut you up. Your breath caught, throat dry.

Minho leaned in, not touching you, just hovering — warm and wet and lethal.

“Gotta say,” he whispered, “I didn’t think you’d walk in this fast. Barely gave me time to dress.”

“Minho…”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Because you snapped.

The air cracked between you — the tension finally slicing clean. Your towel loosened around your chest, breath ragged, fingers twitching like they didn’t know whether to slap him or touch everything. And Minho? He just watched you unravel, biting back a laugh, proud of every second it took to break you.

“You gonna stare all day…” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips, “…or finally show me what you’ve been thinking about when you look at my thighs like that?”

You’d never seen him like that before.

Sure, you’d imagined it. In flashes. In filth. Late at night, hand between your thighs, brain filled with the shape of him under those shorts. But nothing — nothing — prepared you for the real thing.

Minho stood there like a god carved in steam. Skin flushed, droplets running over muscle, thighs thick and flexed, cock hanging heavy between his legs, thick and half-hard — already waking up under your stunned gaze.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

“Say something,” he said, amused by your wide eyes and gaping mouth.

But words had abandoned you. You were stuck — eyes tracking the lazy twitch of him, how he stood so relaxed in his naked glory, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And he did.

You took a step forward without meaning to, towel still clutched to your chest. Your fingers were trembling. Knees weak. He didn’t move, just watched you — eyes low, dark, waiting.

Another step.

Your towel slipped.

You felt it loosen, but your hands didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. It hit the floor in a soft thud, pooling around your feet like you’d given up the last of your defenses. You stood there — bare, breathless, burning — and he exhaled.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body like a slow lick.

Then, he moved.

Minho stepped in close — no warning, no question — and his hands found your waist, firm and sure. He guided you back two paces until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed. The room was spinning — or maybe it was just you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the heat radiating off his skin and the way his eyes never left your face.

“You’ve been dying for this,” he whispered, voice low, rough with want.

You opened your mouth to argue, but then — his thigh slid between your legs.

Thick. Solid. Perfect.

You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

Minho grinned, smug and slow. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Your core pressed against him — bare skin to bare muscle — and it knocked the air from your lungs. The heat of him. The size of him. The position — obscene and grounding at the same time.

He bent slightly, mouth brushing your ear.

“Ride it.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“What?”

He tilted his hips forward just enough to press his thigh harder against your center, making your legs tremble.

“You heard me,” he murmured, turning you around and pulling you onto his legs to straddle him. “You’ve been eyeing them like a good girl with a filthy secret. So ride it. Let me feel how wet thinking about them made you.”

You whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And when your hips moved — instinctively, needily — his grip on your waist tightened.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Use me.”

You started slow, testing the friction, the give of muscle under your folds. It was too much. Not enough. Perfect. His skin was hot beneath you, slick from the shower, and your clit found pressure that made you jolt.

Minho watched you. Jaw tight, lip caught between teeth, cock now fully hard and pressed against your belly — untouched. He didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Didn’t beg for more.

He just let you lose yourself.

Let you rub against him like you’d dreamed about.

Let you chase the high with heat building in your thighs and fire curling in your stomach.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re desperate,” he muttered, hands sliding down to cup your ass, guiding your rhythm. “Wanna see you come just from this.”

Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, moaning into his skin as your hips sped up.

“Been teasing you for weeks,” he whispered, voice thick with pride. “This what you’ve been needing? My thigh between your legs? My voice telling you how fucking good you look dripping on me?”

Your answer was a broken gasp, your whole body trembling as slick coated his leg.

You didn’t mean to let it go this far.

You told yourself you had self control around him — that you’d stop before it got real.

But now you were riding his thigh, naked and soaked, fingers clinging to his shoulders like lifelines while your hips ground down in rhythmless, desperate circles. And Lee Know just watched you fall apart.

His cock pressed against your stomach, rock hard and untouched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. He just let you rub yourself raw on the muscle you’d been obsessing over for weeks — strong, slick, made to ruin you.

“Minho,” you breathed, voice shaking. “I—what am I doing?”

He smirked against your cheek, hands gripping your waist like he owned it.

“You’re finally being honest,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re doing exactly what you wanted to do every time you stared at my thighs like it’s breakfast”

You whimpered, your hips stuttering forward as your clit hit the perfect spot. Again. And again. And again.

“I-I shouldn’t—fuck, I shouldn’t be—”

“But you are,” he growled, flexing his thigh beneath you, making your entire body jolt. “Look at you. Dripping. Shaking. Moaning on my leg like a filthy little thing. And you’re not even touching yourself.”

You let out a broken sob of pleasure, nails digging into his back. Every word he said made it worse. Or better. You didn’t know anymore. Your mind was a haze of heat and friction and him.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” you gasped. “This is—Minho, this is insane—”

“But does it feel good?” His voice was all low thunder now. Fingers sliding up your spine, tracing every arch and tremble.

You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yes. God. Yes.”

“Then keep going,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “Don’t stop now. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your hips moved on instinct, faster, harder — chasing the high building at the edge of your spine. The wet sound of your arousal on his skin filled the room. Your thighs burned, your stomach coiled, your whole body trembling from the friction, the pressure, the filth of it.

Minho tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes blazing.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, teasing and reverent all at once. “Riding my thigh like it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better?”

You bit your lip, eyes glazed over. “I-I don’t think I can stop—”

He crushed his mouth to yours.

Hot. Hungry. Claiming.

You moaned into it, lips parting as he licked into you, deep and possessive. His hands roamed down, kneading your ass, guiding your rhythm as your body started to tremble harder.

His mouth broke from yours just enough to whisper against it:

“Then don’t stop. Come for me, baby. Soak me. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

Your head fell back, gasping his name over and over, your climax rushing up like fire — fast, hot, blinding. Your hips stuttered, your thighs locked, and with one last grind, you shattered. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

You collapsed against him, trembling, your slick soaking his thigh.

And still, he held you.

Still hard. Still smirking. Still starving.

He dragged his mouth down your neck, voice ragged.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Your body was still trembling — thighs weak, breath shallow, clinging to Minho like you’d drown without him. You’d just come undone, hard and messy, riding his thigh like an addict in heat.

But he hadn’t even started.

His cock still pulsed heavy against your belly. His mouth was wet from kissing you breathless. And his hands?

They moved.

He shifted with a low growl, gripping your waist as he guided you down to the mattress like you were made of glass and sin all at once. The sheets were cool under your back, a cruel contrast to the heat burning between your legs.

You barely had time to blink.

Minho knelt between your thighs — broad shoulders pushing them apart with no effort, gaze locked onto your soaked cunt like it was the prize at the end of a long, hard game he knew he’d win.

“You’re already a mess,” he muttered, voice dark with hunger. “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

Your breath hitched. “Minho—”

He dipped his head.

And devoured you.

No warning. No teasing.

Just full contact — lips wrapping around your clit, tongue sliding through your folds like he was starving and you were the only thing on the menu. You cried out, hips jerking, fists twisting in the sheets.

“Fuck—fuck—Minho—!”

He groaned into you, tongue fucking deeper, slower, filthier. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoed through the room, obscene and devastating. His grip on your thighs tightened, locking you open.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he rasped against your cunt. “And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot.”

You were unraveling fast — overstimulated from before, nerves on fire, your body no longer yours. You reached down to push at his head, desperate for control, but he growled and slammed your hips back down.

“Don’t run,” he warned, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re gonna take this.”

Then he flattened his tongue against your clit and sucked.

You sobbed.

Your body bucked, shaking, your thighs closing in on his head — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t care. He groaned low like your struggle turned him on more, mouth locked onto you with ruthless, perfect rhythm.

“Minho— I can’t— I’m gonna—!”

“Do it,” he said, voice muffled and filthy. “Come on my tongue, baby.”

You shattered again — harder, messier, wrecked. You screamed his name like a prayer as your back arched off the mattress, your entire body spasming under his mouth.

But he still didn’t stop.

He kept licking. Kept sucking. Pushing you higher again while you were still falling apart.

“Stop—stop—” you gasped, legs trembling. “I—please—I can’t—”

“Thought you wanted this,” he said, voice mocking but gentle. “Thought this was what you needed.”

“It is, but—fuck, Minho, I can’t take anymore—!”

His mouth left you with one last lick, and he rose over you — mouth shiny, hair wild, cock rock hard and leaking against his abs. He leaned in close, voice rough against your cheek.

“Then beg me for it.”

You blinked up at him — dazed, soaked, dizzy from pleasure.

“Minho, please—”

He smirked, hand sliding down your body, stroking your slick folds with two fingers, slow and teasing.

“Say it right.”

You whimpered, your hips chasing the contact. “Please. Please fuck me. I need it. I need you. I can’t take it anymore, Minho, please—”

He groaned like the sound of your begging was better than coming.

You didn’t even have time to breathe.

Minho lined himself up and pushed in slow — thick, stretching, perfect — and your gasp broke apart into a moan that could’ve shattered glass. He filled you inch by inch like he wanted you to feel everything — the shape of him, the weight, the stretch, the depth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so wet. I can feel how bad you wanted this—how long you’ve been holding back.”

You could barely nod. Could barely think.

He bottomed out with a low growl, hips flush against yours, his cock buried so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

You were already shaking.

Already gone.

And he hadn’t even moved yet.

But then he did.

Minho pulled out halfway and slammed back in — hard enough to knock the air from your throat. You cried out, back arching, and his hand flew to your hip to hold you down.

“Oh my—Minho—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Take it.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with precision — deep, fast, punishing. Your body jolted with every thrust, his skin slapping yours, his breath ragged against your ear.

“You begged for this,” he hissed, mouth at your neck. “Begged me to fuck you, to ruin you. So don’t tap out now, baby. You asked for this.”

You were babbling now — every filthy sound ripped from your throat as his cock hit every spot that made your vision blur.

“You’re so fucking deep,” you sobbed. “Minho, you’re—ahh—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re taking me so well, squeezing me like your pussy was made for me.”

His words sent heat straight to your core, and your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, locking him in.

He grinned through a moan.

“Just like that. Keep holding me there. Don’t let me leave.”

You didn’t plan to.

Your body refused to let him go.

Minho leaned back just enough to watch you — eyes wild, sweat dripping, abs flexing as he pistoned into you with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall.

“You see this?” he panted. “See how cockdrunk you are already?”

You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m yours, Minho—fuck—I’m so yours.”

That broke something in him.

He grabbed your face, kissed you hard — messy, teeth clashing, tongues desperate — and drove into you like a man starved. Like he needed to mark every inch of you from the inside out.

Your orgasm built fast — unstoppable. The angle. The stretch. The way he owned your body like it was created for this moment.

“Minho, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he growled. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you lose it.”

And you did.

Your body seized, core clenching around him in hot, wet pulses as you screamed his name into the sheets. Your climax tore through you, wrecking you from the inside out. You shook, legs trembling, sobbing with the release.

Minho kept going — chasing his own edge, fucking you through your high like he couldn’t stop. And when he came, it was with a low, broken groan — hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled himself completely.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heart pounding against your chest.

The room was silent, save for the sound of your bodies trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, with a smirk pressed against your neck, he whispered:

“Next time… you’re riding both thighs.”

—-

Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

Limbs tangled in sheets. Skin slick with sweat. Core still pulsing faintly where he’d broken you open and filled you up. Everything ached in that perfect way — the kind of ache that reminded you who made you fall apart.

Minho didn’t move for a while. His weight rested on you, warm and grounding, like he knew you needed it — or maybe like he did. You felt his breath fan softly against your neck, one hand tracing slow, lazy circles into your thigh that still trembled slightly.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

Slow. Soft. Sweet.

“You alive?” he murmured, voice low and half-laughing.

You huffed a breath, barely managing a reply. “Barely.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. You blinked up at him — dazed, flushed, completely undone. His grin was pure mischief, but his eyes? Still dark, still starved, but softer now. Like he’d already started memorizing this version of you.

“Well,” he said, brushing damp hair off your forehead, “remind me to steal your shampoo more often.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m literally your favorite person right now.”

“You literally just broke me.”

His laugh was low and smug. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You slapped his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, smugness giving way to something gentler. His fingers interlaced with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, quietly, you asked, “Was that… okay?”

He looked at you like you’d just asked if water was wet.

“Are you kidding?” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to ruin you like that since the day you moaned over my thighs during that dumb Pilates video.”

Your face flamed. “I did not moan.”

“You made a noise.”

“It was a stretch!”

“It was a whimper. From your soul.”

You tried to pull away. He held you tighter, laughing now, mouth pressed to your cheek.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And you’re obsessed with my legs.”

“…Maybe.”

Minho kissed you again — slower this time. Deep, with no urgency. Just skin and breath and the slow, sinking warmth of someone who didn’t need to rush anymore.

“You’re staying in my bed tonight,” he whispered against your lips.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Nope.” He grinned. “You said it yourself, you’re mine now.”

You let out a breath, eyelids fluttering shut as you melted into his arms.

“Next time,” he added with a smirk, voice rough with leftover heat, “I’m making good on that thigh promise.”

Your stomach clenched.

You peeked up at him. “Both?”

He licked his lips, gaze flicking down your body again like he was already planning your undoing.

“Oh, baby…” he purred.

“That was just the beginning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Heh babes, so my requests have racked up quite a bit and as promised i am gonna try to deliver all as much as possible! But for now, atleast till i clear the backlog; REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. Congratulations to Leeknow on his GUCCI Global Brand Ambassador deal!! This one’s for you baby!

A big thank you to all my readers for getting me to 2.1k followers (thats huge 🥹)

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[idkyetxoxo]

Seven | Eclipsed | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 3.1k

Warnings - Parental abuse, angst, sexual content (mild)

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The decision to run wasn't something I made lightly.

But after crying into Eris's chest, after sobbing until my ribs ached and my breath came in shallow hiccups, I knew there was no other choice. 

Not anymore. Not with a life growing inside me. Not after last night.

Beron hadn't even been angry with me. Not specifically. One of my brothers had disobeyed him. A courtier had misspoken. The details didn't matter.  

What mattered was that I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and in his eyes, I'd always been an easy target.

His fists had found me quickly. Cold. Controlled. Not once. Not twice. And then his hands—his hands had wrapped around my throat like iron bands, squeezing, squeezing—

It was Eris who'd pulled him off. Who'd thrown his body between mine and our father's rage. I remembered the heat in his voice, the flash of fire in his hands, the barely contained threat.

I also remembered the silence that followed. 

The tension that thickened the halls. The bruise blooming across my neck like a collar. The way my lip throbbed and cracked when I tried to speak.

This morning, I had dressed in haste, tunic and trousers that didn't cling to the evidence of what I carried. I covered my neck with a scarf. Packed only what I could carry. 

Every movement had felt surreal, like I was watching someone else's hands fold clothes, someone else's body move through my room.

Eris was already waiting outside my door. He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me.

His jaw clenched at the sight of my face—what Beron had done to it. And still, he didn't ask if I was sure. He knew the answer. Knew this was the only path left to me.

"We'll keep it quiet," he said. His voice was low but steady. "Your window of time is short. The guard shift changes in less than an hour. I've already cleared the western corridor. No one will see you."

My throat ached with gratitude I couldn't voice.

"You'll go through Winter first," he continued, adjusting the strap on my satchel, ever the older brother even now. "Kain will be expecting you. He doesn't know the full story—only that you're in danger, and I trust him. He'll give you shelter."

I nodded slowly. "And from there... Day."

"Helion owes me," Eris said simply. "He won't turn you away."

I swallowed thickly. "And if he does?"

He hesitated. "Then you find Lucien. He'll protect you." That name, the last resort. A comfort and a warning.

I took a slow breath. My heart felt like it was splintering, like each beat carried a goodbye I hadn't said yet.

Then, the dam inside me cracked again. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed. "What are you apologising for now?"

"For putting you in this position. For making you lie. For leaving like this. For—" My voice broke. "For everything."

Eris stepped forward, gathering me into his arms again. But this time, I didn't cry. I couldn't afford to. I just pressed my face into his shoulder and held on.

"You didn't put me here," he said, his voice rough. "He did. And if you stayed, it would only get worse. You know that."

I nodded into the fabric of his coat.

Eris pulled back, placing a hand on either side of my face, his thumbs brushing the edges of my bruises with such gentleness I almost cried again.

"You are not a burden. You are not weak. And you are not alone."

I blinked hard. "Promise me you'll come. When it's safe."

A flicker of warmth crossed his features, the rare kind that reminded me of the boy he used to be before this court turned him cold. "I will. I swear it. I'll find you."

The goodbye was brief because if it lasted longer, I wouldn't be able to leave.

I stepped out into the corridor and didn't look back.

The Autumn border loomed ahead before midday, where crimson and gold bled into the pale, icy blues of Winter. The line between them shimmered like a living thing, a rift between worlds. 

On one side, tyranny, fire, blood. On the other, a frigid unknown, but freedom.

The wind howled as I crossed. I had barely made it past the border. My boots crunched in the snow-dusted moss of Winter's forest, breath hitching in my chest, the cold biting through my clothes and skin and bone but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

And then the shadows came. Like a breath of wind. Like a warning.

They spilt in around me, dark tendrils curling over tree trunks, brushing against my ankles like they recognised me, owned me. I barely had time to spin around before he was there.

Azriel. He winnowed in as if summoned by my heartbeat. Cloaked in wings and midnight, expression carved from stone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Are you insane?" I snapped, clutching the strap of my satchel like it might anchor me. My magic instinctively checking the glamour around my belly. My panic came too fast, too sharp. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

His shadows flitted and curled around his shoulders, more alive than I'd ever seen them, like they were relieved. Like they'd missed me.

Of course they had. Damned spymaster.

He didn't answer my questions. He just stared. "You're leaving," he said flatly. A statement. Not a question.

"Yes, Azriel," I said through gritted teeth. "I am. Is that a problem for you?"

"No," he said, too calmly. "Not at all."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then why are you here?"

His jaw clenched. His siphons pulsed faintly, his wings twitching like he wanted to shield me from something invisible.

"You were gone," he said, voice low. "And no one knew where. Eris lied for you. I nearly tore apart the entire Autumn Court before I followed the scent trail across the border. What the hell are you thinking?"

"You have no idea what I've been dealing with—"

"Then tell me!" he barked. "Tell me why you ran! Tell me why you've been hiding. Tell me what Beron did. I know he did something."

My voice cracked. "You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand!" His shadows lashed out violently behind him. "Because right now, it looks a lot like you were just done with me. Like I wasn't even worth a goodbye."

My breath came out in a shudder. The words hit deeper than they should have. Deeper than I could handle.

"I left," I whispered, "because I had to. Because if I didn't—he would have killed me."

Azriel stilled. "I don't care what Beron did," he said after a long beat. "We could have handled it together. You don't get to vanish and act like I don't have a right to fight for you."

"I wasn't just protecting myself!" I shouted, voice sharp with panic, pain, truth. 

"I was protecting your baby."

The words tore out of me like they had claws.

Azriel froze. His expression didn't change, just drained. Like all the breath had been pulled from his lungs. All the colour from the world. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

And I took his silence like a knife to the gut.

I laughed, but it was hollow and choked. "Of course. Of course you'd think it isn't yours."

His head jerked up. "That's not—"

"It is yours, Azriel!" I shouted, a sob clawing at my throat. "Do you think I would run like this, alone, terrified, if it wasn't? Do you think I would carry this—hide this—if it wasn't yours?"

"That's not what I—" He moved forward, reaching for me, voice raw now. "That's not what I thought."

I flinched.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought... I wasn't enough. That maybe you'd decided I wasn't worth telling."

My anger shattered.

"I don't want this—us, if you don't want it," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Don't feel pressured because of the baby. I can do this on my own."

His eyes flashed, wings twitching slightly. "No," he said, the word low, hoarse. "You don't get it."

He stepped closer, voice breaking as he continued, "I've always wanted you. More. I've always wanted more, but I was willing to take what you gave—anything, everything, because I'd rather have you in some way than lose you altogether."

My breath caught.

"Even without the baby," he said, eyes blazing now, "I'd still want you. Gods, it's why I'm here. Why I've been so insistent. So damn persistent. You think I wouldn't be here if this wasn't real to me? You think this is just about obligation?" He let out a ragged breath. "I chose you. Long before I ever knew this child existed."

And then he stepped forward again, slow, reverent, and laid his palm gently—gently over my stomach. His breath caught. "You're pregnant."

I nodded, barely holding it together. "Yes."

His hand trembled. "With my child."

"Yes," I said again, voice cracking.

And something in Azriel broke.

He dropped to his knees before me, arms wrapping around my waist, forehead pressed to the barely-there swell beneath my tunic now revealed because I dropped the glamour. 

His wings curled protectively around us both, and his shadows sank into the earth like they were rooting us together.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice thick. "You were never alone. Not for one damned second. I would've burned the courts for you. For you both."

I buried my hands in his hair as I finally let the tears fall.

"I was so scared," I choked. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know if you'd want it. Or me."

He looked up at me, eyes shining. "Want you? Want you? You're everything. You always have been everything. And this baby—this baby is mine. I will never let anything touch you. Either of you."

And the way he said it, fierce, certain, terrifyingly tender, broke something in me that had been held too tightly for too long.

"I love you," I whispered, voice shaking.

He stood, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me like I was oxygen after drowning.

"I love you," he said. "And I will never let you run again."

Azriel didn't speak again as he winnowed us out of the Winter borderlands, but the way his arms held me, like I might vanish again, said enough.

Velaris met us with the hush of starlight and sea air. The House of Wind stood dark and waiting, perched in the cliffs like it always had, like it had never stopped.

He landed softly on the balcony of his room and didn't let go of me until we were inside, shadows flitting ahead.

For a long while, we said nothing. I stood in the familiar quiet, unsure what to do with my hands, my breath, the storm still warring inside my chest.

Azriel watched me from near the fireplace. Not expectant. Not pressing. Just watching, like he was memorising the fact that I was there, really there.

We ended up in his bed, not by some grand plan but by instinct. His room was still exactly as I remembered, cool shadows and still air, the scent of cedar and clean linen clinging to everything. Him.

We lay there side by side, the silence humming between us like a living thing.

"I missed you," he said after a while, his voice low, rough with emotion.

I turned to face him, our foreheads nearly touching. "I missed you too."

He let out a breath, his thumb tracing along my jaw. "How's it been so far?" he asked, gently, but I knew what he meant.

I gave a shaky laugh. "Terrible."

His brows furrowed instantly. "Terrible how?"

I sighed. "I'm nauseous almost constantly, I'm always exhausted... and, Cauldron save me, I've been so horny all the damn time."

Azriel actually recoiled slightly, blinking. "Oh."

A beat of silence. Then I smirked. "Don't worry, my healer says it's normal. Hormones and all that."

He blinked again, and then he laughed. A real, soft chuckle that rumbled in his chest and made his shadows stir around the bed like they were sighing with relief.

"I... might be able to help with that," he said, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher, warmer.

I raised a brow. "You volunteering, Spymaster?"

He leaned in, lips ghosting over mine. "Only if it's what you want."

"It is," I whispered. "I never stopped wanting you."

That was all it took.

Azriel kissed me like I was air and he hadn't breathed in months. There was no rush, no hunger behind it just softness. Reverence. A kind of aching sweetness that pulled tears to my eyes as his fingers threaded through my hair.

He kissed me until the world went quiet, until there was only the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of our hearts finally syncing again.

His hands moved with care, relearning my body like a song half-forgotten. 

When he undressed me, he paused at every new curve, every sign of change, as if memorising this new version of me—of us.

When he touched the gentle swell of my bare stomach, his expression broke wide open. Wonder, fear, love, all of it flickered in his eyes before he leaned down and pressed a kiss there, slow and trembling.

I ran my fingers through his hair, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

Azriel looked up at me then, cupping my face with both hands. "I love you," he said, fierce and gentle at once. "And I already love them, too."

I kissed him, pulling him down with me, and when he finally slid into me, it was like coming home.

There was no frenzy, no urgency. Only skin and breath and quiet moans between kisses. He moved with care, slow and deep, as if every stroke was a prayer of apology, of promise, of love.

I clung to him, wrapping my legs around his hips, letting the weight of him ground me in this moment. In him.

We made love like we were rediscovering what it meant to be whole.

When we reached the edge, it wasn't with fireworks, but with a sigh, a soft moan, a whisper of his name against my lips as I shattered around him and he followed, groaning into my shoulder as he buried himself deep and still.

Afterward, he didn't let go. He stayed wrapped around me, one hand gently splayed over my thigh, the other tangling with mine.

In the stillness of our shared breath, I realised I wasn't scared anymore.

I was loved. I was safe. We both were.

I felt it like the brush of butterfly wings inside me, a flutter so sudden, so gentle, I sat up with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instinctively to my belly.

Azriel rose with me immediately, tension crackling through his frame, shadows stirring like alarmed birds.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes scanning me for pain.

But then he saw my face. I was smiling. Wide and real.

"Feel," I whispered, grabbing his hand and placing it over the spot just beneath my navel. "Right there."

His hand stilled. A moment passed. Then, another kick. Stronger this time, certain.

Azriel froze. His lips parted, the breath catching in his throat like he'd been struck, like the world had dropped out from under him in the most beautiful way.

"That was—" he blinked, and then a laugh burst from him, raw and amazed. "That's—gods, that's our baby."

I nodded, giggling despite the sudden tears pricking my eyes. He moved instinctively, shifting so both hands cradled the gentle swell of my belly, reverent, like he was afraid touching too hard would wake him from a dream.

"I can't believe it," he murmured. "Three months, and now... it's real. It's really happening."

"It's been real for a while," I said softly, laying back down. He followed me, turning onto his side to face me, one of his wings draping protectively behind my back like a shelter. "But feeling that... it changes everything, doesn't it?"

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on my face. His fingers traced the line of my temple with aching tenderness.

"What else do you know?" he asked, barely louder than a breath.

I reached up, wrapping my fingers around his wrist, pressing a kiss into his palm. My heart beat faster. Not from joy but from the weight of what I knew I had to say.

"There's something I need to tell you," I whispered.

His expression sobered immediately. Concern etched into every line of his beautiful face. His shadows tightened, gathering closer, as if they sensed the shift before the words had even left my mouth.

"The baby..." I began, voice trembling. "The baby has wings."

At first, he smiled. That quiet, proud, stunned smile he wore so rarely, like the sun rising behind his storm. 

But the moment he looked back at me and saw I wasn't smiling, his expression collapsed.

"My body..." I said carefully, repeating the words that had been haunting me for weeks, "isn't built to accommodate that kind of development. Not without complications. Criva, my healer—she explained it plainly. There are risks. Serious ones."

Azriel went still, like a statue carved from night.

And then, hoarsely, "Are you... are you telling me you might die delivering our baby?"

My throat closed. I tried to speak and failed. So I just nodded.

Tears welled in his eyes, unshed but shining, and his shadows became a storm, thick and whirling and frantic as they wrapped around his shoulders like a second skin. 

His hand trembled as he reached up and brushed my cheek.

"I—I can't lose you," he choked. "Not now. Not after everything. Not when I just got you back."

I swallowed hard, blinking through my own tears. 

"It's okay, Az," I said, and somehow managed to sound calm. "Really. If it comes to that... if I don't make it, you'll still have them. And that's enough for me. It has to be."

"No," he said, voice breaking. "That's not enough for me. I want you. I want both of you. I will not let this end with you dying just to bring life into this world."

He shifted closer, cupping the back of my head, foreheads touching now. 

His voice cracked like thunder when he whispered, "We'll find another way. I'll tear apart every library in Prythian, I'll go to Madja, to Helion, to anyone—I don't care. There has to be a way."

"You're not going to lose me without a fight," I murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, salty from his tears. "But you need to understand... this is why I ran. This is why I didn't want to tell you. Because it's terrifying. Because it's real. And I couldn't bear to see you break."

"I won't break," he said fiercely, both hands now framing my face. "I'll bend, I'll burn, I'll bleed—but I won't break. Not as long as you're with me."

I closed my eyes and let the sound of him, his heartbeat, his breath, his voice, wrap around the ache inside me. 

For a moment, there was only that. Only him. Only us.

And in that stillness, I let myself hope.

A/n - FINALLY THE TRUTH! It didn't come out exactly the way I originally imagined, but after tweaking it endlessly, this is the best I could do.

We go from heavy angst, straight into some spice and then into soft fluff... real whiplash energy, I know x

The ending is sad I'm aware. They just found their way back to each other, only to be hit with the full weight of how dangerous this pregnancy really is :(

Also I have a concert on monday (lana del rey… i know 😝) and the next part is meant to be on tuesday for this but I might have to wait to post cause i wanna tweak it a bit but i won’t have time cause of the concert, don’t kill me please ty 😭

Thank you for reading <33

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[mariasont]

clothing optional

a water mishap leaves you in hotch's pajamas and confronting some awkward, fluttery feelings.

pairing: aaron hotchner x intern!reader warnings: age gap, fluffity fluff, mentions of hotch’s clothes being oversized, spencer being a shit, reader being overstimulated as hell by hotch (i get it girl) prompt: here! wc: 0.5k

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are.”

He was. Or maybe not in the auditory sense, but in the molecular sense. You could see it in the shimmering vibration beneath his words and the glimmer of copper-lit eyes you lately lose entire moments looking at, seconds bleeding into eternities.

One glance in the mirror, unfortunately, provides clarity as to his suppressed shit-eating grin. The proportions are laughable, almost abstract. His shirt hangs from your shoulders like it's trying to remember what structure is, and you... you look like a squid caught mid-metamorphosis, limbs lost somewhere under sleeves and pants designed for someone who probably has double your muscle mass. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a small person. You’re not. Aaron Hotchner just seems to take up space in every sense of the word.

“I have better manners than that,” he murmurs, and the subtle rasp in his voice skims across your nerve endings like sandpaper dragged gently across glass. Unexpected friction, oddly delicate.

“You know," you begin, "good manners are... kind of arbitrary. Historically speaking, etiquette was less about kindness or decency and more about control. Upper-class individuals engineering performative social rituals to differentiate themselves from, well, everyone else." You pause. "So... you know. Arbitrary."

Your hands make a vague gesture you hope reads as so there, but it probably just looks like mild jazz hands.

“Guess I’ll have to find new ways to assert my social superiority."

“I mean, you could always fall back on that whole commanding presence that makes people immediately defer to your authority thing you’ve got going.”

You make the executive decision to ignore the increasingly obvious fact that whatever neurological response his authority presence triggers — elevated heart rate, dermal sensitivity, slight auditory lag — is highly specific to you. Which is probably just some sort of... psychological imprinting effect. (Or a crush. Which you cannot examine too close.)

He fixes you with a look you’ve come to label as his patented active refusal to entertain nonsense, though you haven't shared that classification with him. You're ninety percent sure he uses it more on you than anyone else.

“How’s your bag?”

“Better now that it’s away from Spencer,” you say, rolling your eyes, “He got it in his head that he could prove a theory about water displacement using my travel shampoo and a bathtub. I think he tried to recreate Archimedes' moment but with my Pantene and a plastic mug."

He plucks at the T-shirt draped over you — his shirt, which you're still trying not to think about too much, because it smells like him and feels incredibly intimate in of itself.

“Tomorrow we can go into town and get you something less susceptible to Reid’s aquatic experiments. Unless you prefer permanently borrowing my clothes.”

“Tempting offer,” you joke, cheeks flushed with heat (vasodilation, your brain supplies, ever helpful in its commitment to observation). “But, um, if I keep borrowing your clothes, we'll have to start accounting for tensile decay. Cotton's only got so many wash cycles in it. Not that I've... calculated the exact threshold. Yet.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling pleasantly through your stomach.

“Good point,” he says, and then, because apparently, he hasn't done enough damage, adds, “But just so you know, I’m perfectly fine with a few compromised T-shirts if you are.”

Your heart flinches. Or flutters. Violently. Like a firework that went off two seconds too early.

“Well, technically I guess the degradation would depend on washing frequency and detergent alkalinity levels, because pH can break down cotton fibers over time, and if we factor in the mechanical action of the washer drum —”

“Hey.” There's patient amusement laced through his tone. “Do you need a second?”

You press your palms against your cheeks.

“Yeah. I — Yeah, I think that would be good. Thank you.”

He turns, pausing in the doorway.

"I'll tell the team not to jump to conclusions," he says. "But I doubt that'll help."

It's fine. You'll recover. Probably. Someday.

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[tsaheylutales]

hiiiii!

if you’re still taking requests, i’d love to see steve with someon like him. someone who’s like loud, snart, flirty, flirts with him and they’re like “wait, you actually like me?! wtf???? i thought it was just a game!” queue kisses (maybe a liitle smut 👀)

i love yr writing tbw!! 🤍🤍🤍 everything dad!steve is just so fucking sweet!!! 🤍🤍🤍🤍

Hii! Yes I'm still taking request, Thank you so much for leaving one! I didn't do any smut but the kiss does get a bit heavy. let me know what you think!

about 1k words.

You and Steve were always flirting. That was just how your friendship was. You’d wear ridiculously low-cut shirts and lean over the counter at just the right angle and watch Steve’s eyes flicker down, up, and back down again.

You’d smirk. He’d cough, and pretend he wasn’t looking.

It was a game. A safe, ridiculous game you’d both been playing for months. No rules, no consequences.

But lately…It’s been feeling less like a game. And more like something you didn’t quite know how to handle.

It was a slow Tuesday and the peak of Indiana summer. The AC was broken and all there was to cool you down was a tiny desk fan perched on the counter that occasionally turned just right and blessed your face with three seconds of relief.

You were wearing one of your thinnest tank tops, the kind that hung just low enough to make Steve’s jaw clench, paired with cut-off denim shorts and zero shame. Your skin was warm, a little sticky with sweat, and the heat made everything feel heavier. Slower. Needier.

Steve was trying to make himself useful. Or at least look useful.

He was kneeling by the horror section, stacks of VHS tapes beside him, pretending to reorganize what definitely did not need reorganizing. You’d watched him line up the same row of tapes three times already, each time fussing with the angle like it mattered.

It didn’t. Not when his eyes kept drifting to you every few seconds.

“You good, Harrington?”

He stood up too fast, bumping into the shelf. “Yeah! Fine. Totally fine.” He says, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His eyes fall to your chest.

You smirk, voice sickly sweet. “Getting a bit hot and bothered there, babe?”

Steve freezes.

His jaw works for a second, like he’s trying to form words and failing, before his eyes flutter shut for a moment and he lets out a low, shaky breath.

Then he marches over.

Not striding. Not swaggering. Marches like he’s made a decision and there’s no going back.

You barely have time to process before he’s right in front of you, hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of your thighs, locking you in.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” Steve breathes, voice low and wrecked, like he’s one second from completely losing control.

You tilt your head, lips curled in a knowing smile. “Think I do. S’part of the game.”

His eyes flicker, something shifts behind them. Less teasing, more need.

“Yeah?” He says, stepping even closer. “Well I don’t want to play anymore.”

You blink, heart skipping, breath catching. Because the look he gives you? It’s not the usual cocky, flirty Steve.

It’s real. Desperate. Like he’s been aching for this, for you, and he’s finally giving himself permission to stop pretending it’s all just a game.

“Then stop playing.” You say quietly.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth crashes against yours, messy, open-mouthed and hungry. You gasp into his mouth and he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss with a kind of desperation that sends heat straight through you. His lips are soft but needy, his tongue insistent, teeth catching on your bottom lip just hard enough to make you whimper.

Your hands move from his shirt to his hair, threading through the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him groan, low and rough in the back of his throat, like he needs this.

He kisses you deeper, hungrier, hands gripping your thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Then, suddenly, he pulls back just enough to breathe, not far, just enough to mouth along your jaw, your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear.

“You have no idea how much I like you, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your skin.

You freeze. Just slightly. Your fingers still in his hair, breath catching. “Wait…”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and nervous laughter. “So you actually like me?”

Steve leans back just enough to see your face, and he’s smiling, but it’s not cocky or flirty this time. It’s soft. Real.

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him.

“Yeah, I like you.” He says quietly, like it’s obvious. “I’ve been losing my mind over you for, like, months. Thought it was pretty clear.”

You stare at him. And now you’re the one reeling. You blink once. Twice.

“Steve…” You breathe, suddenly aware of how fast your heart is beating.

“I thought we were just… playing.” You say, softer now. “I didn’t think you actually meant it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, a little stunned, like he’s the one who can’t believe you didn’t know.

“Babe.” He says, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “I’ve dropped about seventy-five tapes, called you every name except your own, and haven’t been able to look at you without forgetting how to speak. You really thought that was just flirting?”

Your cheeks are warm, but not from the heat anymore. You smile, small, a little dazed. “I… didn’t know you liked me back.” You admit, blinking up at him.

He grins, wide and so Steve, brushing his nose against yours.

“Well.” He murmurs. “Now you do.”

And then he kisses you again.

This time softer, slower, like now that the truth’s out, there’s no rush. No more hiding.

Just you.

And Steve.

And the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a game anymore.

[vaginalvr]

HELLO!!! I LOVE your writing and was wondering if you could please write a dom!spencer who is just a pleasure dom but in the worst way and overstimulates the reader when he thinks some guy is trying to flirt with her at the bar?

No pressure I love whatever you write and I hope your holiday is good!!

content warning: Explicit sexual content, consensual BDSM and Dominant/submissive dynamics, overstimulation, verbal dominance, possessive behavior, public setting sexual activity (bar), power exchange, teasing, sensory play, age gap relationship (implied).

a/n: omg thank u mlllllllllllll this is basically just porn no plot sryyyyyy

word count ~ 2k

room but mostly focused on Spencer standing just a few feet away. His presence was magnetic, but tonight there was something different in his gaze—sharp, protective, possessive.

You caught the way he noticed the guy leaning a little too close, flashing you a smile that was too practiced, too easy. Spencer’s jaw tightened just a bit, that familiar quiet intensity building behind his eyes. Without a word, he slid closer, the heat radiating off him unmistakable.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” Spencer murmured, voice low but firm. You swallowed, feeling the mix of his concern and something darker—an urge to claim you right then and there.

His hand found yours, fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you gently but decisively toward a quieter corner of the bar. You didn’t protest. The tension between you was electric, every inch of you attuned to the way Spencer’s gaze darkened, the slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in close, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m going to make sure he knows you’re mine. And you’re going to feel exactly how much.”

Before you could answer, his hand slid under the hem of your skirt, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over the bare skin of your thigh. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his touch spread through you like wildfire.

Spencer’s lips ghosted over your ear, his breath hot and steady. “You like that, don’t you? Want me to show you just how much.”

His fingers moved with deliberate patience, stroking, teasing, but never quite enough to let you fully catch your breath. You were burning, burning with need and frustration, desperate for release but also trapped under his delicious torment.

The guy from before glanced your way again, clearly confused by the quiet storm unfolding in the corner. Spencer caught it, chuckled softly, and pressed a kiss to your jaw before trailing down your neck.

“You’re too sensitive for him to handle,” Spencer said, voice thick with promise. “But I’m going to take care of you right here, right now.”

His hands and mouth moved in perfect harmony, overwhelming every nerve ending with touches and kisses that left you trembling and gasping. Pleasure rolled over you in relentless waves—too much, just enough, always pushing the edge.

You tried to speak, to tell him to stop or slow down, but your voice caught in your throat. You were at his mercy, utterly and deliciously exposed.

Spencer’s fingers slipped lower, exploring with slow, maddening precision, making you arch into him even as your senses spun out of control.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, eyes burning into yours. “And tonight, you’re going to learn exactly how that feels.”

The world narrowed until there was only him, only this—the overwhelming, endless pleasure that left you breathless and aching for more.

You were barely able to steady your breath, Spencer’s touch both exquisite and merciless, trailing down your thigh in slow, deliberate circles that had your nerves fraying in the best possible way. The bar’s ambient noise faded into nothing as his fingers explored, teasing and stroking in a rhythm designed to unnerve and excite all at once.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Spencer murmured close to your ear, his warm breath sending goosebumps across your skin. His lips brushed against your earlobe, then down the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

Your fingers clenched the edge of the booth, trying to ground yourself, but Spencer had other plans. His hand slipped higher, fingertips grazing the edge of your underwear, slow and deliberate, testing your limits with each movement.

“You don’t get to forget who you belong to,” he said softly, voice thick with desire and possession. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

Your eyes fluttered open just in time to meet his gaze—dark, intense, completely focused on you. There was no question who was in charge, and the clarity of that knowledge sent a shudder through you.

The guy who’d been watching you earlier tried to approach again, but Spencer’s grip tightened, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. His low voice cut through the noise of the bar. “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you.”

The man hesitated, clearly unnerved by the quiet, dangerous energy Spencer radiated, and backed away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Spencer’s hand returned to your thigh, his touch more demanding now. The teasing had stopped—he was claiming you, marking this moment with his control and attention.

He leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his tongue tracing the outline of your mouth as if memorizing every inch. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel his dominance and affection all at once.

“Do you want more?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You nodded, breathless. The thought of stopping was impossible. You were caught in the storm of his pleasure and power, and you didn’t want it to end.

Spencer shifted, adjusting his position so his body pressed against yours, his hard length evident beneath his trousers. His hands didn’t stop moving, sliding beneath your skirt to explore, touch, and tease until you were trembling under his every stroke.

“You feel so good for me,” he said, voice a seductive whisper. “I’m going to take care of you right here, right now. No one else gets to.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, teeth grazing softly as his hands explored with relentless hunger. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and just enough all at once.

You moaned, the sound lost in the music and chatter around you, but Spencer caught it, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“Louder,” he commanded gently, voice dripping with dominance. “Let them hear how much you belong to me.”

Your breath hitched, and you obeyed, feeling the delicious sting of exposure and ownership. Spencer’s hands moved faster now, fingers teasing you in ways that made your knees weak and your heart race.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, eyes never leaving yours. “Only mine.”

Every nerve ending sang as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his skillful fingers and heated mouth driving you wild. You were trembling, gasping, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was lavishing on you.

“Come for me,” he urged, voice low and commanding. “Show me how much you want this.”

Your body betrayed you, folding into the wave of release that crashed over you with fierce intensity. Spencer held you steady, grounding you even as your senses spiraled, his hands gentle yet unyielding.

When you finally came back to yourself, your skin flushed and your breath ragged, Spencer’s lips were on yours again, kissing away every shaky breath, every trace of vulnerability with a tenderness that made your heart soar.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, pulling you close. “And I’m not letting anyone take you from me.”

You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, comforted and consumed all at once.

The night stretched on, but in that moment, nothing else mattered except the way Spencer made you feel—desired, protected, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Spencer’s hands never stopped moving, never lost their purpose. His fingers danced over your skin with expert precision, teasing and kneading every sensitive spot until you were gasping for air and desperate for release. The heat building between your legs was a wildfire, and Spencer was the only one with the power to control it.

His lips traced a line from your jaw down to your collarbone, biting gently before sucking on the tender skin. You could feel his breath hitch as he tasted you, his hunger matching your own. The bar around you faded further, the noise reduced to a distant murmur, irrelevant in the face of what he was doing to you.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered, voice low and possessive, “and I love that about you. You’re mine, and I’m going to make sure you feel it every single second.”

His fingers slipped beneath your panties with slow, deliberate intent, circling and stroking your slickness. The sensation was maddening, waves of pleasure crashing through you as your body tensed, begging for more. Spencer’s mouth followed his hands, kissing and sucking along your inner thigh, marking you as his in a way no one else could.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice rough with need. You obeyed immediately, eyes locked on his dark, intense gaze. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“I want you,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please, Spencer. I need you.”

His smile was a promise and a warning. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Spencer’s hand tightened on your hip, pulling you flush against him. His other hand found the waistband of his pants, undoing the button with quick fingers. You watched him, breathless, as he revealed himself—hard, swollen, ready.

Without hesitation, he pressed himself against you, the heat and weight grounding you even as your body begged for more. His lips found yours again, claiming you in a fierce, hungry kiss as he began to move, slow and relentless.

The sensation was overwhelming, every inch of you alive with pleasure and need. Spencer’s hands roamed freely, gripping, teasing, holding you in place as he drove deeper and deeper, each movement a delicious torment that left you gasping and trembling.

“You belong to me,” he growled, voice thick with dominance. “And I’m going to make sure you know it.”

You cried out his name, the sound raw and desperate as the waves of pleasure built higher and higher until they crashed over you in a shattering release. Spencer held you tight through it all, grounding you, claiming you.

When you finally came down from the high, his mouth was on yours again, gentle and possessive. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, soothing the trembles that wracked your body.

“You’re mine,” he repeated softly, “and no one is going to take you away.”

You smiled against his mouth, overwhelmed and utterly content. Tonight, Spencer had shown you exactly what it meant to be his—completely, utterly, and without reservation.

The night deepened, but you were wrapped in his arms, safe in the knowledge that Spencer Reid, brilliant, dominant, and utterly devoted, was yours.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

The Fairy Uso -- Jhea *crackfic*

Rhea dropped her gym bag by the door with a thud and toed off her sneakers, sweat still clinging to her neck from her afternoon training session. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Then she saw it.

The mug.

The same stupid mug she’d asked Jey to wash four times. It sat in the sink like it owned the place and crusted with whatever ungodly protein sludge he drank before workouts, and now stained with a grayish ring that might’ve once been coffee. Or possibly death.

“Joshua,” she said calmly, dangerously.

From the couch, Jey tilted his head, his PS5 controller still in hand and one AirPod hanging loose in his ear. Shirtless, sockless, and clearly unaware he was standing on the edge of a cliff he built with his own laziness.

“Yo,” he grinned. “You look strong today.”

“The mug is still in the sink.”

Jey blinked. “What mug?”

“The mug,” she hissed. “The one you swore you’d clean on Monday.”

He craned his neck to look at the sink like it had just appeared out of nowhere. “Damn, that one? I thought the mold was like, seasoning. Like blue cheese. Gourmet vibes.”

Her nostrils flared. “The laundry is still in the washer. It smells like wet towels and bad decisions.”

“That’s my fault,” Jey admitted quickly. “But also, mildew is natural. Builds immunity or whatever.”

“You left glitter in the fridge, Josh.”

“I swear that wasn’t me. …Okay, it might’ve been me.”

She stared at him with no emotion nor hesitation and said, “We’re done.”

He blinked. “Like… done done? Or fake done where we yell and then eat pizza?”

“Done done,” Rhea snapped, already grabbing her keys. “Don’t text me. Don’t call me. Don’t try to fix this with that dumb enchanted gum your cousin gave you last time.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, genuinely stunned. “Babe. It’s one mug. ONE mug.”

The door slammed.

Silence settled in. Jey stood there in the living room, looking like a kicked puppy with a man bun. The TV flashed a “You Died” screen behind him. Even his Call of Duty teammates had left the party.

Barry, their dog, padded out from under the table and gave him a long, judging stare.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jey muttered. “You could’ve washed it too.”

He picked up his phone. Scrolled to Roman’s name.

Jey: she left me. gum me up.

OTC 🩸: no.

Jey: 2 fucking bad I'm omw

--

Jey wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop. That's a lie... every time he's in this position, he is always eavesdropping. But.. nevertheless he was just walking past catering, hoodie up, AirPods in, minding his own post-breakup business and then he heard it.

Dominik Mysterio. Talking too loud as always

“I’m just saying,” Dom said to some poor crew guy, “Rhea’s single now. I mean, I know she’s still healing and everything, but like… I could swing by her locker room with some flowers. Or those gluten-free brownies she likes. And maybe I serenade her, bro. I been practicing guitar.”

Jey stopped in his tracks. One AirPod slid out.

Serenade?

SERENADE?

No. No no no. Not again.

Dom had tried this exact mess. The night he attempted to have a Mariachi Band play Selena for HIS RHEA.

Now he was talking about gluten-free baked goods?

Jey took off running.

---

By the time he made it to Roman’s locker room, he was breathless, sweating, and borderline feral.

He slammed the door open.

“Bro I need the gum.”

Roman, halfway through doing pushups with resistance bands and chewing a mint leaf like a Bond villain, didn’t even look up.

“No.”

Jey gaped. “You don’t even know which gum I’m talkin’ about!”

Roman stood, slow and calm. “Yes I do. Because I keep them all in the safe. And the one you're thinking about the one that turns you into a fairy, which is off limits.”

“Come onnnn,” Jey whined, practically vibrating with panic. “Dom’s talkin’ about flowers and brownies and music, and you KNOW how she gets when she hears a sad boy ballad!”

“I said no.”

“Why don’t you ever help me?!”

Roman shot him a look so sharp it could slice a ring rope.

“You really wanna ask me that?” he said. “I’m only gonna name one event: The Band.”

Jey froze. His mouth opened. Closed. His eyes glazed with memory.

The Band.

Rhea’s birthday. The house party. The cheap mic that almost caught their sex sounds.

Jey, Roman, Jimmy, Solo, and Sami Zayn… forming a last-minute Bloodline band. Singing “Play That Funky Music White Boy.”

They had harmonized.

“Okay, but that don’t count,” Jey said quickly.

Roman’s eyes widened. “That don’t COUNT?! I sang funk for you!”

“Okay it was fire!” Jey said, hands raised. “That bridge section? You ATE.”

“No. No gum. You’re banned.”

“But uce—”

“I said no.”

Jey lowered his hands, lips trembling. Then, in a whisper:

“She’s gonna fall for Dom’s brownies, Uce.”

Roman blinked. Then sighed. Then walked to the wall safe.

“God, I’m gonna regret this.”

He punched in the code. 0–6–2–8–0–0 (Samoan Heritage Day). The door clicked.

Roman pulled out a tiny glittery gum case labeled in purple Sharpie:

“FAIRY FORM. Use for Emergencies Only (DO NOT LET JEY NEAR THIS).”

He tossed it at Jey.

“One chew only. Mood swings kick in after twenty minutes. Do not cry in front of production staff again.”

Jey popped the gum into his mouth and grinned as sparkles bloomed around his face.

“Time to fly.”

--

Jey hovered mid-air, flapping awkwardly, just outside the fourth-floor balcony of the La Quinta Inn. His wings buzzed softly with green shimmer, twitching every time he got too emotional. Which was often.

Below him, normal pedestrians walked by unaware that a grown-ass man with glitter eyebrows and a wand shaped like a miniature steel chair was crouched behind a potted plant, spying through balcony curtains.

Inside, Liv Morgan was talking to Rhea. Rhea looked… rough. Like, crying-in-a-sports-bra rough. She was wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, mascara slightly smudged, hair in a ponytail that screamed “heartbreak, but still hot.”

Jey’s heart twisted.

“I miss you, baby,” he whispered to himself, then immediately sneezed glitter. “Damn side effects…”

Inside, Rhea wiped her face and muttered something that made Liv shake her head and rub her shoulder gently. Liv said something like, “You need someone who folds laundry without being asked.”

Jey frowned. “That’s a personal attack.”

He flitted slightly to the left, wings buzzing. “Okay. Plan. Operation Sparkle Redemption.” He opened his tiny sparkly notebook (where did he even get that?) and started whispering ideas:

Bake apology brownies

Write glitter poem

Enchant Dom's guitar to only play Nickelback

Set up fireworks that spell “SORRY BABY” across the sky

Kidnap her gym bag and leave a love letter inside

He tapped the steel chair wand, which had magically transformed into a green pen, against his temple. “Or… what if I turn into like, a lil dog and a fairy? Like a fairy Yorkie?”

Thunk.

Something smacked his wing. Hard.

He yelped, spun mid-air, and saw a small rock tumbling toward the ground.

Jey glared down. Below him, outside the parking garage, stood Judgment Day in their usual dramatic cluster: all in black, all slightly over it. Dominik was holding another rock.

Dom cupped his hands and shouted up:

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ALWAYS IN SOME MAGICAL SITUATION?!”

Jey shouted back, hand on hip, sparkles swirling around him like angry dust:

“Why the fuck are you always tryna steal my girl with acoustic sadboi energy?!”

Damian sighed loudly and lit a cigarette.

Finn whispered something to JD and JD nodded like they’ve had to deal with so many fairy-related problems this month alone.

Rhea and Liv looked up toward the commotion. Jey yelped and flattened himself against the balcony like a glittery gecko.

Inside, Liv blinked. “Did… did something just sparkle outside?”

Rhea rubbed her eyes. “I think I’m hallucinating again.”

Down below, Dom picked up another rock. “GET DOWN HERE AND FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN. OR A PIXIE. WHATEVER YOU ARE.”

Jey hissed like a feral glitter cat. “YOU’RE NOT EVEN IN HER LEAGUE, DOMINIK!”

Finn sighed again. “Here we go…”

The second pebble hit Jey’s thigh, he knew it was on.

“Y’all really wanna do this?” he snapped, floating ten feet above the pavement, his sparkly wings twitching with rage. He raised his wand, “I didn’t wanna go full fairy mode, but you threw rocks first!”

Dom smirked from below. “You turned into a fairy to win your ex back, bro.”

Jey aimed the wand at him like a sniper. “AND I’D DO IT AGAIN.”

Without warning, he swooped down and bonked Dom on the shoulder with the wand-chair. A shower of rainbow stars exploded on impact. Dom screamed like he got tagged by a unicorn in prison.

“AHHH! MY BONE! I THINK IT’S GLITTER-FRACTURED!"

Damian reacted fast, launching a pebble at Jey’s side. Finn followed, throwing two rapid-fire chunks of gravel like he trained for this.

Thunk. Thunk-thunk. Glitter in distress.

Jey yelped and zipped back into the air, arms flailing. “NOT THE PEBBLE FORMATION!”

JD yelled, “GET HIM!!”

Suddenly, it was a hailstorm. Rocks. Pebbles. One mini shampoo bottle.

“Y’ALL ARE PETTY!” Jey shrieked, spinning mid-air like a disco ball under attack. “I’M LITERALLY GLOWING AND Y’ALL THROWIN’ EARTH?!”

But he was outnumbered. Four to one. His wing was cramping. He was spiraling—

And then...

✨ POOF!

Jimmy Uso appeared out of thin air, wearing glitter shades and a deep v-neck crop top. His wings were golden and lopsided, but he was armed with two glowing glowsticks that pulsed like twin tasers.

“AYO GET OFF MY TWIN!” he shouted, doing a flip mid-air for no reason.

✨ POOF!

Solo showed up next with his expression blank, wings matte black, holding what looked like a magical battle club made out of enchanted Red Vines.

“Time to eat dirt,” he muttered, swinging like a baseball bat and taking out one of Finn’s pebbles mid-air.

✨ POOF!

Sami Zayn came last, wings crooked, wearing a sparkly scarf and carrying a megaphone. “FREEDOM FOR FAIRIES!” he yelled, flying straight into Damian’s shoulder and bouncing off like a ping pong ball.

Judgment Day panicked. It was full-on air combat now: sparkles flying, pebbles raining, Dom screaming, “IS THAT A FAIRY ARMY?!”

And then… the wind changed.

It got heavy.

It got serious.

A shadow fell over the parking lot.

The clouds parted like they were afraid.

And through the blinding sun came a deep, chest-shaking voice:

“ENOUGH.”

Everyone froze mid-flight.

And then he descended.

Roman Reigns.

Not just a fairy.

THE Fairy.

Tank-sized wings of gold and obsidian. Beard braided with pure moonlight. Muscles glistening with enchanted sweat. A sash that read Fairy Commander. A giant wand the size of a full sledgehammer strapped to his back.

He landed with a boom. The pavement cracked.

“Y’all embarrassing the fairy realm,” he growled. “Throwing rocks? In the airspace? Using magic without permits?”

Dom whimpered. “He started it.”

Jey pointed dramatically. “He tried to steal my girl with baked goods!”

Roman ignored both. “We do not fight over muffins and crushes. We fight for honor. For glory. For THE SPARKLE CODE.”

Everyone stood silent. Judgment Day held their pebbles like children caught with contraband.

Jey fluttered to the ground, eyes big. “Does this mean I can still win her back?”

Roman stared at him. Long. Stern.

“…Make it good, Fairy Uso.”

“You know she’s never gonna take you back,” Dominik huffed, brushing glitter off his shirt like it was fleas. “You left a moldy mug in the sink, bro. A MUG. With mold.”

He turned on his heel, sprinting toward the hotel’s automatic doors like a man on a mission. “I’m gonna go be emotionally available now!”

“OH NO YOU DON’T,” Jey shouted, flapping his glitter-dusted wings and launching into the air.

He soared, locked in, eyes narrowed. The wind rushed past his face. His wand gleamed in the sunlight.

He zeroed in on the hotel entrance.

Target: Acquired.

Judgment: Imminent.

…SLIDING DOORS: Not Magic-Activated.

BONK.

The impact echoed like a rubber mallet against a dry skull. Jey smacked full-speed into the glass door, wings flattening like paper fans, sparkles bursting from his shoulders like sad fireworks.

He slid down slowly, face smushed against the glass, leaving a faint glitter streak behind.

Inside the lobby, a kid eating a complimentary waffle screamed.

Jey groaned from the sidewalk. “Dom… you asshole.”

From behind the front desk, the La Quinta receptionist sighed. “Not again…”

---

Dom was grinning ear to ear as he strutted down the hallway of the fifth floor, cradling his tiny ukulele like it was an extension of his soul.

His curls were extra fluffed. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to say “I feel things.” And the song choice? Iconic. A classic. Romantic. Safe. Rhea couldn’t resist Elvis, and he knew it.

He stopped in front of Room 418, adjusted his necklace, and knocked twice.

The door opened halfway.

Liv Morgan peeked through, brow arched. “Oh no.”

Dom’s grin widened. “Tell her it’s for her.”

Liv didn’t even fight it. She just turned her head and deadpanned, “Rhea. It’s for you.”

A moment later, Rhea appeared behind her, hoodie on, face tired, eyes suspicious.

Dom strummed once.

Then, with a breath, he began:

🎶 “Wise men say…

Only fools rush in…” 🎶

Rhea blinked, stunned. Liv slowly stepped back into the room like she was leaving a crime scene.

🎶 “But I… can’t help…

Falling in lo—” 🎶

CRASH.

Like a sparkly missile from the heavens, Jey tackled Dom straight into the hallway wall mid-chorus.

The ukulele let out one last sad twang before shattering on impact.

They hit the floor hard with Dom screaming, Jey yelling, fairy wings flapping like crazy.

“YOU TRIED TO SERENADE MY WOMAN?!” Jey roared, straddling Dom’s chest, glitter flying off his hair like rage confetti.

Dom flailed, covered in glitter and drywall dust. “YOU HIT ME DURING THE BRIDGE!”

Rhea’s jaw dropped.

Liv gasped, “Jey… are you wearing eyeshadow?!”

Jey looked up, breathing hard. “It’s water-activated pigment shimmer, thank you.”

Dom shrieked, “HE FLEW THROUGH A WINDOW LIKE A BEDAZZLED PIGEON!”

“I FLEW THROUGH PAIN, DOMINIK,” Jey snapped.

Rhea rubbed her temples. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

The hallway was silent now, aside from Dom groaning in the corner like he got hit by Cupid with a steel chair.

Rhea grabbed Jey by the back of his glitter-dusted hoodie and yanked him up, dragging him into the hotel room like a bouncer hauling out a drunk VIP.

She shut the door behind them with a heavy thud.

Jey stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, wand still in hand, sparkles clinging to his skin like stubborn glitter herpes.

Rhea crossed her arms.

“Okay,” she said, voice flat. “Why… are you a fairy?”

Jey blinked.

“Well—see—I overheard Dom say he was gonna bring you gluten-free brownies and serenade you, and obviously I couldn’t just let that happen, so I went to Roman and I may have asked for the gum.”

Rhea just stared.

Jey shifted on his sparkly Crocs. “The fairy gum.”

She blinked again.

He tried to smile. “Y’know. Romantic gesture.”

Rhea’s voice hit a new octave. “You turned into a fairy… because you thought it would be romantic?”

Jey nodded slowly, wings twitching. “Like, Cosmo from Fairly Oddparenrs but sexy. With emotional depth.”

Rhea slapped her forehead. “We broke up four hours ago, Josh. Four. And in that time, you turned yourself into a flying glitter disaster and assaulted Dominik mid-Elvis cover!”

Jey pointed a glittery finger. “Okay, first of all—he was butchering it. Second of all… I wasn’t the only one.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head toward the balcony window.

Rhea turned.

And there, just hovering like budget Marvel heroes were Jimmy, Solo, and Sami, all with various degrees of fairy wings, enchanted accessories, and dumb grins.

Sami was holding a glittery poster board that read “#TeamJey 💘”

Jimmy threw up deuces. “Aye Rhea!”

Solo just nodded once, sipping from a Capri Sun. His wings barely fluttered.

Rhea blinked. “You dragged all of them into this?!”

“I didn’t!” Jey shouted. “They volunteered! Well… except Roman. He showed up as, like… a Final Boss.”

Rhea walked to the couch and sat down in absolute silence.

She put her head in her hands.

And finally muttered: “You’re lucky you’re cute."

Jey stood awkwardly across from her, glitter shimmering on his cheeks like remorseful highlighter. His wings fluttered a little whenever he felt nervous .. which, in this moment, was a lot.

She finally looked up, eyes sharp.

“Sit.”

He obeyed instantly, wand across his lap like a punished schoolboy.

“Jey,” she said slowly. “I didn’t mean to break up with you.”

His head jerked up. “Wait, you didn’t?! Then why’d you—”

“I was angry, Josh. I needed you to understand that when I ask you to do something, I mean it. I don’t want to nag you. I don’t want to fight with you. But I’m not your mom. I shouldn’t have to ask three times to wash a mug.”

He opened his mouth to protest but shut it when he saw her expression.

“I wasn’t trying to end things,” she went on, softer now. “I just wanted you to see I wasn’t playing. I need a partner, not another person I have to clean up after.”

Jey looked down at the wand. “I thought if I did something big… it’d show you I care.”

“Big isn’t always better,” Rhea said. “Sometimes I just want help with the laundry.”

“…What if I enchanted the washing machine so it talks to you?”

She gave him a look. He winced.

“Okay. Not the time.”

She reached out and flicked a speck of glitter off his nose. “You know you’re still covered in sparkles, right?”

“I think they’re inside me now.”

Rhea exhaled a slow laugh, then leaned in and touched his cheek gently.

“I love you, fairy glitter mess and all. But if you wanna keep this relationship alive, you're gonna have to fight harder for chores than you do for serenade showdowns.”

Jey nodded solemnly.

“Starting tomorrow,” she added. “You’re scrubbing the fridge.”

His face paled. “Even the… vegetable drawer?”

“Especially the vegetable drawer.”

[lightfromthelostland]

Okay, everyone, I went down the The Pitt to ER pipeline rabbit hole and I Need to talk about the Carter Family Dynamics and specifically the elements raised by Chase Carter. I'm gonna be calling Carter John even though it's weird because everyone in this post is a Carter, haha.

Firstly, the situation with Carter's parents is a lot. His mom's multi-episode arc clearly shows that she basically got trapped in the moment that Bobby died, and she seems to resent the fact that John didn't get stuck there too. "You were exactly where you've been my entire life - you were somewhere else" is brutal but apparently factually accurate if his parents couldn't be bothered to come see him for three weeks after he was literally almost murdered by a patient. Like, my parents have way fewer resources to work with and they would be there in absolute minimum amount of travel time were something like that to happen to me. I did see some comment the other day about it being sexist that John is more willing to forgive his dad's screwups than his mom's but, friends, "she was disappointed in you as a father and as a man" is a hell of a thing to say to your father about his recently deceased mother, if you have forgiven that man for his absentee parenting. I think the continued contact with his dad was more a feature of his father making a decision to at least try to change and continuing to show up, while his mother continued to do what she (they) had always done before, which is hiding from the feelings.

But. That thing John says to his dad comes after his grandmother skips right over his dad - and any other relatives who might have a claim - and leaves the entirety of the Carter family fortune (and the ancestral home) in John's control. Which brings me to my main point, which is - the Carter Family Dynamics are real weird, and nothing makes that clearer than the introduction of Chase Carter.

So. The Carter Family is super rich and they have a lot of built-in expectations with that, as rich people often do. For this reason, John has received a great deal of disapproval for his pursuit of a career in medicine, which is bizarre from the perspective of us normal people, for whom a doctor in the family would be something to be proud of. He gets cut off from the family money for a while because he wants to continue to pursue it without them holding anything over his head. His grandmother repeatedly tries to talk him out of it. Chase says he's pretty much the only family member with a career outside of the family holdings, and as such, he's something of the black sheep of the family - or is he?

When Chase shows up, he makes it very clear that John is the Anointed One. He's the one that John Carter Sr. has always wanted to take over when the time comes. And apparently, this is still the case despite his medicine based rebellion. And that's weird for a number of reasons.

Firstly, let's talk about the rest of the Carter family. As previously mentioned, John's dad is very much alive. Logically, he would be the first choice to take over, you'd think. But beyond that, John had an older brother. He has at least one cousin (Douglas) that we know for absolutely certain is older than him, and personally, I interpreted Chase as being older as well, though not by much. He also, maybe, has an older sister who we never met and who may or may not exist. (As far as I can remember from my binge watch, the only mention of her is when he tells Benton that his parents are visiting her for Thanksgiving, prior to Benton inviting him to his family dinner. My personal headcanon is that she doesn't actually exist and he was just covering the fact that his parents couldn't be bothered to be around for the holidays.) In a family dynasty like this, the older boys would seem like the prime candidates, and yet.

Also, this is a good time to talk about how these older boys make John's name kind of weird. Even if you ignore Chase and Douglas as not being in the Main Line, Bobby still exists! Why is the second born son the one that got The Third-ed? I saw something in a fic speculating that the choice was an attempt to curry favor by John's parents, which would make some sense, but also implies the presence of significant dysfunction in the family even before John was born, let alone before Bobby died. I have questions!

SO. It is strange that John would be the Chosen Grandson, purely from a dynastic standpoint. Now, on the other hand, I love John Truman Carter III with my whole heart, and he demonstrates throughout the show that he is a) very smart b) very capable of setting a difficult goal and following through on it even the face of opposition (ironic that this trait that makes him a desirable heir is Also the reason that they're frustrated with him) and c) able to turn on the social graces and charm the general public in the specific way that the family wants. I can see how they would focus on him based on personality but there is still his dad! Who even the younger generation (as spoken through Chase) is ignoring as a stepping stone at best and a non-candidate at worst for inheriting Head of the Family status.

And that's not even getting into the way John seems to have simply supplanted his father in his grandparents' affections. John has a room in the house and feels comfortable adding a home gym without discussing it with his grandmother. John is the one who has a giant portrait of him hanging in the foyer (yes I know from a Doylesian perspective this is for the giggles of Anna and Carol stumbling across it, but like, that painting is canonically there). John's parents stay in a hotel rather than at the house when they're in town for Senior's funeral. John is the one who handles Gamma's home care after her accident, and the one who goes for a drive with her after Senior's funeral, and the one she leaves all the money to. He's the one being recruited to hand out checks at benefits even though he still hasn't given up his day job. There's a lot going on!

Anyway, clearly I have a lot of feelings about this, TLDR: Carter family dynamics are seriously whack.

Please discuss.

[formulafanfics13]

Okay, now a cliché. The reader is Tsunoda's girlfriend and is taller than him (whether it's a lot or a little, it's your decision, diva ❤️). They both love each other and this difference is insignificant to them. At a Red Bull event, a businessman decides to ask Yuki "if he can handle you" and says that he (the businessman) can handle you better. Tsunoda gets furious but doesn't have time to answer, because the reader hears everything and says that she is MORE THAN SATISFIED WITH YUKI (in every sense), so satisfied that she even "screams" (😌) Yuki is proud and actually makes the reader scream in the hotel room.

Yuki short king 4ever ❤️

I love writing for Yuki, but I just feel that I never really know what to write!

Scream for me - YT22 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: At a Red Bull rooftop event in Tokyo, a sleazy businessman tries to humiliate Yuki by questioning if he can “handle” his taller, confident girlfriend — only for her to destroy him with a savage, orgasm-laced monologue in front of half the paddock. Fueled by pride and need, Yuki drags her back to the hotel and makes her scream his name over and over, proving exactly who owns her body, soul, and every inch of her voice.

Warnings: dom!Yuki Tsunoda, size kink (height difference), public humiliation (of a third party), possessiveness, rough sex, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, degradation (light), overstimulation, praise kink, dirty talk, orgasm control, cocky dom energy, mild exhibitionism, paddock chaos

 It started as a good night. Swanky rooftop bar, panoramic view of Tokyo glittering beneath the stars, Red Bull branding discreet but everywhere. Yuki stood beside you with one arm resting possessively on the small of your back, still in his tailored navy suit, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you bite your tongue. He looked stupidly good. Stupidly short, too, compared to you in heels, but he didn’t care. He never had. He was Yuki fucking Tsunoda. He drove cars like a demon and fucked like a god. The height thing? Please. Irrelevant.

You stood taller than him in your black satin dress, hips tilted, clutch dangling off your wrist. He loved it. Loved how your legs looked in heels, how your body pressed down on his when you kissed him, how the world looked at you and assumed all the wrong things until he had you under him moaning like a prayer.

He especially loved how you never let anyone treat him like less. Which was why the moment started to curdle, it felt like poison in his throat.

The businessman was older. Oil money. Or maybe crypto. One of those Red Bull "strategic partners" who wore a suit that cost more than Yuki’s Monaco rent and a Rolex that could blind a man in daylight. He’d been staring at you for the past ten minutes while pretending to talk about aerodynamics. Now, drink in hand, he tilted toward Yuki with the kind of smirk that always meant bullshit was coming.

“So,” the man said, his accent thick and condescending. “Tell me… how do you handle her?”

Yuki blinked. “What?”

The man smiled wider. “She’s tall. Strong. A lot of woman. I mean-” he laughed, like they were friends. “Can you even handle that?”

Yuki went silent. Body tensing. Fire building. The man didn’t stop. “A woman like her needs someone who can take control. Not be intimidated.” His voice dropped, disgusting and smug. “I could handle her better than you ever could.”

Before Yuki could breathe, you spoke. Loud. Clear. Cutting. “Funny,” you said, spinning around slowly. “Because I’m more than satisfied with Yuki.”

The conversation around you stopped. Heads turned. The businessman blinked, stunned. “In every way,” you added, smiling with venom. “In bed. In life. In ways that would make you cry.”

Yuki swallowed. You weren’t done. “In fact,” you went on, stepping closer to the man with a casual tilt of your hip, “I scream. Loud. Almost every night.” Someone coughed. A Red Bull comms intern dropped her phone. “Sometimes,” you said sweetly, “twice.”

The businessman looked like someone had slapped him with a wet fish. Red down to his fucking collar.

“Now if you’ll excuse us,” you purred, lacing your fingers through Yuki’s. “I’m going to take my incredible boyfriend back to our hotel and let him fuck me until I can’t remember your name.”

Yuki didn’t speak. He just turned, hand clutched in yours, and followed you out with fire in his chest and the kind of cocky smirk that made half the Red Bull garage cheer as the elevator doors shut behind you.

He didn’t even wait for the room service menu to be set down. The second the door clicked shut, Yuki had you pressed against the wall, mouth on yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip like he was trying to mark you from the inside out.

“You scream, huh?” he muttered between kisses, hands already on your hips, sliding up your thighs. “You scream for me?”

“Every fucking time.”

“Then scream for me now.”

He spun you around, pulled the zip of your dress down so fast it burned. You gasped, arching as the satin peeled off your body. His hands roamed your back, your ass, gripping like he was trying to memorise every inch. You turned to face him, lips already kiss-swollen, bra discarded, nipples hard from his stare alone. “Bed,” he growled. “Now.”

You backed toward it. Crawled onto the mattress with that bratty little smirk he loved, legs spread just enough to show him what was his. He watched, chest rising fast, pupils dark with hunger.

“You want me to scream, Yuki?” you teased, voice breathy. “Then earn it.”

He did. He pulled your panties off with his teeth, tongue already dipping between your legs before they hit the floor. His hands locked around your thighs, holding you open like a fucking feast. And then he ate. Groaned against your cunt like it was his last meal, tongue dragging slow and deep, lips closing over your clit with obscene precision. You were already whimpering.

“Louder,” he said against your skin, “I want everyone in this fucking hotel to hear how wrong that bastard was.”

You did. You moaned his name so loud the walls shook. When he pushed two fingers inside you, curling just right, your legs trembled.

“Yuki-fuck-fuck-”

He didn’t stop. Just switched angles, tongue still on your clit while his fingers fucked into you like punishment. The orgasm hit so hard you gasped like you’d been shocked.

And still, he kept going. “Another,” he said, voice low. “I’m not done.”

You came again before you could argue.

By the time he pulled away, face soaked, you were wrecked. Mindless. Sprawled across the bed like a girl who’d been worshipped by a god. But he wasn’t finished. He grabbed you by the hips, flipped you over, and pressed you against the hotel mirror.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, cock hard and leaking against your thigh. “Look how pretty you are when you scream.”

You moaned as he slid inside you, deep, rough, claiming you in one sharp thrust.

“Say it,” he growled into your neck. “Say who fucks you like this.”

“You-Yuki-fuck-you-”

He grinned. Pulled out, slammed back in. “Louder.”

“You! No one-fuck-no one fucks me like you-”

“Good girl.”

He set a brutal pace, fucking you hard enough to make your toes curl, your legs shake, your lungs give up trying to catch breath. The mirror fogged. Your screams filled the room. Your nails scraped the glass. And when you came for the third time — barely coherent, fucked dumb and dripping down his thighs — Yuki finally groaned against your skin, hips stuttering, and came with a moan that sounded like victory.

You collapsed together, breathless, tangled in sheets and sweat and pride.

“Still tall,” you whispered, lips swollen, “still screaming.”

Yuki kissed your shoulder. “Still yours.”

And when you woke up to a text from the Red Bull press team asking you to “keep it down next time”, you sent them a wink emoji and went back to sleep.

Because yes, you screamed. And yes, he earned it.

[auguryofjellyfish]

This is the main blog of @misha-v and I just wanted to say that I really love the long commentary tags you leave on art reblogs complimenting all the little details, it means so much to me when ppl notice and appreciate those and take the time to point those out and explain why they like them, you especially. It makes me feel rlly good inside and it kind of keeps me going because I know for a fact that you love it to the point where you're willing to dedicate your time to leaving those long tags ^^

So thank you, thank you so much ^-^

hi!! thank you for taking the time to write such a long and kind message! i'm always blown away when people tell me they appreciate my tags, like fr, wow?? i'm so so happy to hear how they make you feel <3 the tetro community artists create a lot of things that i find pleasant, thought-provoking, impactful, or things that evoke feelings in general, which makes the words come to me more easily. i always like it when i find i have a lot of things to say about a piece of art! i'm glad that my words can brighten people's day too.

speaking of yapping, i hope you don't mind cuz i wanna do that right now :3c I LOVE YOUR ART!!! you have mastery over using shapes, the general "blockiness" of your style reminds me of those early 2000s cartoon network shows, which is nice to see because these artstyles aren't that popular nowadays. so that, + the smoothness and thickness of your line art makes your character artwork look really defined and sharp.

and your colour choices... i have no idea how you do it, but they're just sublime. like in your DRDT designs, for example, the cream + gentle red of okazaki's suit, the greenish black of hiroaki's, the vibrant orange of isono's hair contrasted with the bluish green, the beautiful purples, pink and white of tamba's outfit... bruh. this stuff almost brings me to tears. it's breathtaking how beautiful these colours are, and how well they go with each other. they make my brain go brrrr.... not to mention the designs themselves are fire too RAAHHH!!! lies down... i just think it's neat.

also i need, neeed to talk about your chap 3 au. it's so meaningful to me. i've seen people kill off wada as a victim in their AUs A LOT, it's like a staple at this point. usually, it's him taking someone else's place or just to have him die in general ig, and i don't find that very compelling. like, oh wow, victim wada?? definitely haven't seen that before lol. but in your au, he dies, but it was because he decided to strike back against his abuser, and i find that so beautiful.

disclaimer, ik okazaki is also a teenager and i'm not celebrating her death etc. but the fact still stands that wada is a victim, hers and in general, and you had him take back some of his power for the first time in his life. not only that, he also inadvertently saved a person he loved from being executed (whether it was a good thing for her is another matter). the killing game itself makes the participants inherently powerless, but he acted with as much agency as you can while being inside it.

i LOVE this wada. this is such a wonderful take on his character, a version of him that's a bit to the left, that values himself and his own dignity a bit more than in canon. and maybe one that holds onto bitterness/anger more, as well. but it STILL MAKES SENSE!! it doesn't feel OOC! this au just took the him that stabbed okazaki as self defense and turned that into more active and retaliatory force.

also, strangling a mf to death with HDMI cables is just iconic. pure king shit. anyway... i'm very glad that canon wada's survived this long, and i love him for who he is, but if he had to die, it wouldn't be so bad if it had gone something like this. thank you for creating such an awesome AU.

[fruitageoforanges]

saw a post about how rhaegar was the best-placed person to stand up to aerys and how he failed, and now i have brainworms about it.

because he was (short of… well, robert, it turns out), and he did fail. he was too weak when it counted to ultimately save his wife and children. there are no heroes. grand designs always fail at the level of a man. and men are weak and fallible.

(side note: not anti-rhaegar. clown on this post at your peril.)

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

so, prior to learning that toga died, I was in the process of writing an ending where toga and touya escape prison and call you remembering that your family helps villain refugees (ACTUALLY I POSTED A LITTLE BIT OF IT I FORGOT), and basically he becomes part of your group so toga didn't have to and she could just be normal finally (which you were very clear that NEITHER of them needed to do anything but touya doesn't really know how to exist outside of service and I don't think he'd like feeling indebted to people).

But basically, this actually ends up being a very chill, low-key happy/bittersweet ending where you three kinda become a little villain family unit and it's the only universe where you and touya have a kid.

And this is a really long way of me saying that I realized if you and touya had a son he would probably end up looking a lot like Ekko actually lol

[kaitoru]

୨୧ broken bed ! nanami kento

in which kento accidentally breaks the bed

kento had been relentless his attention fixated on the way your back arched beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer with every thrust.

“more, kento!” you gasped, your voice a desperate plea as your nails dug into his broad shoulders, his response was immediate, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he drove into you harder, his movements precise but forceful, each one sending a jolt through your body.

his hands gripped the headboard for leverage, his knuckles whitening as the wood creaked under the pressure, the rhythmic slamming of the headboard against the wall echoed in the room, a testament to his unyielding pace.

“careful what you ask for,” he murmured voice low and gravelly, laced with that dry edge of control he always clung to, even now.

his sharp eyes flicked down to meet yours, a glint of hunger. “you’re making it hard to hold back.”

“then don’t,” you shot back breathless but defiant, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, his lips twitched, not quite a smirk but close enough to hint at the fire you were stoking in him.

nanami grunted the sound almost primal, and tightened his grip on the headboard, the force of his movements intensified, each thrust deliberate, calculated to push you both closer to the edge.

but then, with a sharp crack, the bed lurched beneath you, the frame gave way, one side collapsing and tilting the mattress at an awkward angle.

you yelped in surprise, your body sliding slightly, but nanami froze, his chest heaving as he registered what had happened.

“shit—honey, i—” he started, his voice clipped with a rare edge of embarrassment, his hands were still braced on the headboard, his body hovering over yours, and despite the mishap, he hadn’t pulled away.

his length remained buried inside you, a steady presence, he glanced at the broken bedframe, his jaw tightening as if mentally calculating the cost of repairs already.

“i didn’t mean to break the damn thing.” you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up despite the heat still coursing through you.

“kento, it’s fine,” you said, your voice teasing as you reached up to touch his face, guiding his gaze back to you. “you think i care about the bed right now?” his eyes met yours, you whimpered softly, bucking your hips against him, a silent plea to keep going.

that was all it took, yis expression shifted, the stoic mask slipping as something fiercer took over. “alright,” he said,his voice low and resolute, like he was making a decision he’d already committed to.

“hold on to me.” before you could respond, nanami’s strong arms slid beneath you, lifting you with effortless strength, you gasped as he maneuvered you off the broken bed, your legs still wrapped around him, and lowered you to the floor.

you barely had time to register it before he was moving again, his thrusts resuming with a desperate edge, he braced one hand on the floor beside your head, the other gripping your hip to keep you in place.

“kento,” you moaned your voice trembling as he set a punishing rhythm, each movement driving him deeper.

“don’t stop—please.”

“wasn’t planning to,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear, his usual restraint was fraying, his focus entirely on you—on the way you clung to him, the way your body responded to every thrust.

“you wanted more, didn’t you? i'm giving it to you.” you nodded frantically, your hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could reach.

“yes, yes, just like that,” you gasped your words barely coherent as the pleasure built to a fever pitch, nanami’s jaw clenched, his breathing ragged as he pushed himself harder, chasing his peak with a single minded intensity that was so quintessentially him.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[fumiliar]

kento's a real man.

a man who uses your purse with no shame, even if everyone stares at him.

a man who does not feel ashamed in doing 'feminine' activities, in his eyes, it's just an activity. since when is cooking or knitting shameful?

a man who doesn't have the need to control your every move. he doesn't always need to be in a position of power over you.

a man who flaunts your achievements, even if they're greater than his. in fact, he could never be prouder.

a man who understands the decision of the amount of children to have entirely is up to you.

a man who isn't scared to buy feminine products and in fact volunteers to buy them when you are in need.

a man who understands that housework is a shared activity and that being a housewife is a real job.

a man who understands the sacrifice of becoming a full-time mom and makes sure you know you're appreciated in every single moment.

note: beabadoobee reference, got an idea while listening to her song

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

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[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

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[formulafanfics13]

Redbulls Golden Boy - MV1 ✨

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone believes Max Verstappen stays at Red Bull out of loyalty, but behind the scenes, it’s power — and control — that keeps him there. He quietly takes out every frustration on Christian Horner’s daughter, manipulating and emotionally abusing her in private while playing the golden boy in public. She suffers in silence, unseen, untouched, and broken beneath the surface.

Warnings: Contains psychological abuse, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, threats, implied physical intimidation (grabbing, wrist bruising), victim silence, isolation, power imbalance, references to domestic abuse, and themes of helplessness and identity erasure. No explicit sex, but the emotional damage is intimate, persistent, and violent in tone.

Everyone thought Max Verstappen stayed with Red Bull out of loyalty. After the pit stop fuck-ups, the strategy disasters, the internal chaos that leaked through thin smiles and scripted interviews, after every stupid decision that cost him seconds, wins, or sleep, the press said he was mature now. That he’d grown up. That he was calmer, steadier, older. That Max Verstappen wasn’t the firestarter anymore. That he had patience now. That he believed in the team.

They called it commitment. Maturity. Long-term vision. But they didn’t know about her. Because if they did, none of them would have used the word loyalty.

She was Christian Horner’s daughter, and that alone made her untouchable in theory. In the public eye, she was a socialite with the surname to match, caught between boredom and legacy, always somewhere near the paddock but never in it. Not a strategist, not a press officer, not even part of the media team. Just his daughter. Her job was to smile at sponsors, post pictures on Instagram, keep a hand delicately placed on Max’s arm when they needed to seem like they got along.

She wasn’t even allowed to sit on the pit wall. Not anymore. Max had made sure of that. Because when Red Bull fucked up and cost him another race, when the radio hissed with a voice he’d long since learned to ignore, when Christian gave another empty apology or another corporate justification, Max didn’t raise his voice anymore. He didn’t throw his gloves. He didn’t slam doors. He just smiled that perfect cold smile and said it’s fine, and walked straight past every camera.

And then he went looking for her. It always started with silence.

Silence when he entered whatever VIP suite, hotel room, or private paddock apartment they’d shoved her into. Silence while she sat on edge, hands pressed together, breath frozen in her throat like snowmelt. Max wouldn’t even look at her. Not at first. Not until the door locked. Then it changed. Then it got quiet in a different way. He never shouted. He didn’t need to. The venom in his voice was enough. “Oh, look at you. Sitting around doing nothing again. Just like your father.”

Her eyes would flick up and catch his, but only for a second. It was never safe to hold the stare. “You think I don’t see it? That little show you all put on? Christian pretending he gives a shit. You pretending you’re not just riding his name. You’ve never earned a fucking thing in your life.”

Her heart would stutter in her chest and she’d nod, like that would stop it. Like if she agreed with him, it would end there. Sometimes, if she was lucky, it did. But most days she wasn’t lucky. Because Max didn’t just need to hurt her. He needed to feel in control. And when the team spiraled, when he crossed the line second instead of first, when the numbers didn’t add up and the world started whispering about Mercedes or Ferrari or whoever-the-fuck had a better plan, he needed to own something. Someone.

So he chose her. “You think I don’t see the way you flinch when I walk in?” he would whisper, voice like ice. “You make me sick.”

She never cried. Not until he was gone. Never in front of him. Max hated crying. Said it was manipulative. Said it was weak. Said she did it on purpose to make him feel bad. And she used to fight back, in the beginning. Raised her voice once. Told him to fuck off. Told him he was cruel, told him she wasn’t her father, told him he didn’t get to punish her just because the team was falling apart.

That was the first time he grabbed her wrist. Didn’t leave a bruise, he was too smart for that, but she still remembered the grip. How his fingers crushed her bones. How calm his voice stayed even when he got close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath.

“You don’t talk back to me,” he’d said, quietly, like it was a rule she should have already known. “Ever.”

And that was the end of it. Now she didn’t fight. Not anymore. Now she just waited. Waited for him to come back from another debrief with clenched teeth and that look in his eyes. Waited for the hiss of the door behind her. Waited for him to take it out on her like she was a fucking punchbag made of flesh and silence.

He didnt often hit her. He didn’t need to. The bruises would be too obvious. Too real. But the things he said stayed with her longer than fists ever could. And no one knew. Not even Christian.

Especially not Christian.

Because Christian loved Max like a second son. Gave him everything. Backed him through every controversy. And Max used that blind trust like a weapon. Smiled in front of him. Shook his hand. Called him boss. Acted like the perfect Red Bull soldier while turning his daughter into nothing but a broken fucking shadow behind every closed door.

And she let it happen. Because she knew if she said anything, her father wouldn’t believe her. Or worse, would believe her, and wouldn’t care enough to stop it. Because the team came first. Max came first. She was a daughter, sure, but Max was the world champion. The golden boy. The future.

So she stayed silent. Nodded when needed. Posted photos. Smiled for cameras. Let people think they were in love, or at least something close to it. That she was lucky to be with him. That he was devoted. That the reason he hadn’t left Red Bull yet was because he believed in them, believed in family, believed in her.

God, what a fucking joke. Max didn’t believe in anything except control. And every time she looked in the mirror and saw nothing behind her own eyes, every time she flinched at the sound of his name, every time she practiced her smile until it didn’t hurt, she reminded herself that no one would believe the truth. Not about him. Not about her.

Because Max was still winning races. Still making podiums. Still doing just enough to keep the story alive.

And she? She was just the girl who stood behind him in photos. The daughter of the boss. The face no one looked too closely at. But if they did, if they really looked, They’d see what she saw. That the loyalty wasn’t to the team. It was to the power. And Max Verstappen never gave up power. Not even when it destroyed someone else.